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aiictlj  Stuart 

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CHAPTERS    FROM 
A   LIFE 


BY 


ELIZABETH    STUART 
PHELPS 


ILLUSTRATED 


BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

<$be  mtoertfte  J&retf?,  Cambribse 

1900 


Copyright,  1896, 
BY  ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  WARD, 

All  rights  reserved. 


The  Riverside  Press,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  &  Co. 


m  A  / 

CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.      AN   ANDOVER   HOME I 

II.      ANDOVER   LIFE   AND    PEOPLE     ....  23 

III.      AT   SCHOOL 44 

iv.    WAR-TIME:   FIRST  STORIES      ....  67 

V.      THE  FALL  OF  THE  PEMBERTON  MILL  :  THE  GATES 

AJAR 88 

VI.      AND   STILL  THE   GATES   AJAR    .           .           .           .  I IO 

vii.    MRS.  STOWE:  JAMES  T.  FIELDS   .        .        .        .  131 

viii.    LONGFELLOW:   WHITTIER  :   HOLMES       .        .  153 

IX.      CELIA   THAXTER  :      LUCY   LARCOM  :      LYDIA    MA 
RIA    CHILD  :      PHILLIPS     BROOKS  :     THE    OLD 

MAIDS'    PARADISE 175 

X.      GLOUCESTER IQ8 

XI.      EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL  :    "  SHUT   IN  :  "   A  ROSE 

GARDEN    IN    CAROLINA 221 

xii.    ART  FOR  TRUTH'S  SAKE  :  STORIES  AND  BOOKS  : 

A   NEW   HOME 249 


430047 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

ELIZABETH  STUART  PHELPS  (Mrs.  Ward)   Frontispiece 

REV.   MOSES   STUART          .......  4 

REV.    DR.    E.    PHELPS 8 

ELIZABETH      STUART      PHELPS,       HER      MOTHER,      AND 

INFANT  BROTHER  STUART  •  *4 

PROFESSOR  AUSTIN    PHELPS'   HOUSE,   ANDOVER            .  24 

DR.   EDWARDS  A.   PARK 40 

PROFESSOR  AUSTIN    PHELPS 54 

PROFESSOR    M.   STUART    PHELPS,    BROTHER    OF    ELIZA 
BETH    STUART   PHELPS 64 

OLD    THEOLOGICAL     SEMINARY    BUILDINGS,    ANDOVER  J2 

ELM   ARCH,   ANDOVER 84 

JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 92 

JAMES   T.  FIELDS IIO 

HARRIET   BEECHER   STOWE 140 

HENRY  WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW     .           .           .           .  154 

OLIVER   WENDELL    HOLMES l66 

CELIA   THAXTER 176 

LUCY  LARCOM l8o 

LYDIA    MARIA   CHILD 184 

PHILLIPS    BROOKS IQ2 

NILES'S   BEACH,   GLOUCESTER 2OO 

THE   HOUSE   AT   GLOUCESTER 2l8 

EDWARD   ROWLAND    SILL 224 

HERBERT   D.    WARD 246 

THE   HOUSE  AT  NEWTON   CENTRE        ....  274 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 


AN    ANDOVER   HOME 

HAS  it  not  been  said  that  once  in  a  lifetime 
most  of  us  succumb  to  the  particular  situation 
against  which  we  have  cultivated  the  strongest 
principles  ?  If  there  be  one  such,  among  the 
possibilities  to  which  a  truly  civilized  career  is 
liable,  more  than  another  objectionable  to  the 
writer  of  these  words,  the  creation  of  autobio 
graphy  has  long  been  that  one. 

Yet,  for  that  offense,  once  criminal  to  my 
taste,  I  find  myself  hereby  about  to  become  in 
dictable  ;  and  do  set  my  hand  and  seal,  on  this 
day  of  the  recall  of  my  dearest  literary  oath,  in 
this  year  of  eminent  autobiographical  examples, 
one  thousand  eight  hundred  and  ninety-five. 

"There  is  ,  who  has  written  a  charm 
ing  series  of  personal  reminiscences,  and 

,  and . 

"  You  might  meet  your  natural  shrinking  by 
X 


I  CHAPTERS  FROM  A  LIFE 

allowing  yourself  to  treat  especially  of  your  lit 
erary  life ;  including,  of  course,  whatever  went 
to  form  and  sustain  it." 

" I  suppose  I  might"  I  sigh.  The  answer 
is  faint ;  but  the  deed  is  decreed.  Shall  I  be 
sorry  for  it  ? 

It  is  a  gray  day,  on  gray  Cape  Ann,  as  I  write 
these  words.  The  fog  is  breathing  over  the 
downs.  The  outside  steamers  shriek  from  off 
the  Point,  as  they  feel  their  way  at  live  of  noon, 
groping  as  though  it  were  dead  of  night,  and 
stars  and  coast  lights  all  were  smitten  dark, 
and  every  pilot  were  a  stranger  to  his  chart. 

A  stranger  to  my  chart,  I,  doubtful,  put 
about,  and  make  the  untried  coast. 

At  such  a  moment  one  thinks  wistfully  of 
that  fair,  misty  world  which  is  all  one's  own, 
yet  on  the  outside  of  which  one  stands  so 
humbly  and  so  gently.  One  thinks  of  the  un 
seen  faces,  of  the  unknown  friends  who  have 
read  one's  tales  of  other  people's  lives,  and 
cared  to  read,  and  told  one  so,  and  made  one 
believe  in  their  kindness  and  affection  and  fidel 
ity  for  thirty  years.  And  the  hesitating  heart 
calls  out  to  them  :  Will  you  let  me  be  sorry  ? 
Thirty  years  !  It  is  a  good  while  that  you 
and  I  have  kept  step  together.  Shall  we  miss 
it  now  ?  If  you  will  care  to  hear  such  chap 
ters  as  may  select  themselves  from  the  story  of 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

the  story-teller,  you  have  the  oldest  right  to 
choose,  and  I,  the  happy  will  to  please  you  if  I 
can. 

The  lives  of  the  makers  of  books  are  very- 
much  like  other  people's  in  most  respects,  but 
especially  in  this  :  that  they  are  either  rebels 
to,  or  subjects  of,  their  ancestry.  The  lives  of 
some  literary  persons  begin  a  good  while  after 
they  are  born.  Others  begin  a  good  while  be- 
fore. 

Of  this  latter  kind  is  mine. 

It  has  sometimes  occurred  to  me  to  find  my 
self  the  possessor  of  a  sort  of  unholy  envy  of 
writers  concerning  whom  our  stout  American 
phrase  says  that  they  have  "  made  themselves." 
What  delight  to  be  aware  that  one  has  not  only 
created  one's  work,  but  the  worker !  What  ela 
tion  in  the  remembrance  of  the  battle  against 
a  commercial,  or  a  scientific,  or  a  worldly  and 
superficial  heredity ;  in  the  recollection  of  the 
tug  with  habit  and  education,  and  the  overthrow 
of  impulses  setting  in  other  directions  than  the 
chosen  movement  of  one's  own  soul ! 

What  pleasure  in  the  proud  knowledge  that 
all  one's  success  is  one's  own  doing,  and  the 
sum  of  it  cast  up  to  one's  credit  upon  the  long 
ledger  of  life  !  To  this  exhilarating  self -content 
I  can  lay  no  claim.  For  whatever  measure  of 
3 


CHAPTERS  FROM   A   LIFE 

what  is  called  success  has  fallen  to  my  lot,  I 
can  ask  no  credit.  I  find  myself  in  the  chas 
tened  position  of  one  whose  literary  abilities  all 
belong  to  one's  ancestors. 

It  is  humbling  —  I  do  not  deny  that  it  may 
be  morally  invigorating  —  to  feel  that  whatever 
is  "worth  mentioning"  in  my  life  is  no  affair 
of  mine,  but  falls  under  the  beautiful  and  ter 
rible  law  by  which  the  dead  men  and  women 
whose  blood  bounds  in  our  being  control  our 
destinies. 

Yet  (with  the  notable  exception  of  my  father) 
I  have  less  than  the  usual  store  of  personal  ac 
quaintance  with  the  "people  who  most  influ 
enced  me."  Of  my  grandfather,  Moses  Stuart, 
I  have  but  two  recollections  ;  and  these,  taken 
together,  may  not  be  quite  devoid  of  interest, 
as  showing  how  the  law  of  selection  works  in 
the  mind  of  an  imaginative  child. 

I  remember  seeing  the  eminent  Professor  of 
Sacred  Literature  come  into  his  dining-room 
one  morning  in  his  old  house  on  Andover  Hill 
which  was  built  for  him,  and  marked  the  cre 
ation  of  his  department  in  the  early  days  of  the 
seminary  history.  He  looked  very  tall  and  im 
posing.  He  had  a  mug  in  his  hand,  and  his 
face  smiled  like  the  silver  of  which  it  was  made. 

The  mug  was  full  of  milk,  and  he  handed  it 
ceremoniously  to  the  year-old  baby,  his  name- 
4 


REV.   MOSES  STUART 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

sake  and  grandson,  my  first  brother,  whose 
high-chair  stood  at  the  table. 

Then,  I  remember  —  it  must  have  been  a 
little  more  than  a  year  after  that  —  seeing  the 
professor  in  his  coffin  in  the  front  hall ;  that  he 
looked  taller  than  he  did  before,  but  still  impos 
ing  ;  that  he  had  his  best  coat  on  —  the  one,  I 
think,  in  which  he  preached  ;  and  that  he  was 
the  first  dead  person  I  had  ever  seen. 

Whenever  the  gray-headed  men  who  knew 
him  used  to  sit  about,  relating  anecdotes  of  him 
—  as,  how  many  commentaries  he  published, 
or  how  he  introduced  the  first  German  lexicon 
into  this  country  (as  if  a  girl  in  short  dresses 
would  be  absorbingly  interested  in  her  grand 
father's  dictionaries !)  —  I  saw  the  silver  mug 
and  the  coffin. 

Gradually  the  German  lexicon  in  a  hazy  con 
dition  got  melted  in  between  them.  Sometimes 
the  baby's  mug  sat  upon  the  dictionary.  Some 
times  the  dictionary  lay  upon  the  coffin.  Some 
times  the  baby  spilled  the  milk  out  of  the  mug 
upon  the  dictionary.  But  for  my  personal  uses, 
the  memoirs  of  the  distinguished  scholar  began 
and  ended  with  the  mug  and  the  coffin. 

The  other  grandfather  was  not  distinguished  ; 
he  was  but  an  orthodox  minister  of  ability  and 
originality,  and  with  a  vivacious  personal  his 
tory.  Of  him  I  knew  something.  From  his 

5 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

own  lips  came  thrilling  stories  of  his  connection 
with  the  underground  railway  of  slavery  days  ; 
how  he  sent  the  sharpest  carving-knife  in  the 
house,  concealed  in  a  basket  of  food,  to  a  hid 
den  fugitive  slave  who  had  vowed  never  to  be 
taken  alive,  and  whose  master  had  come  North 
in  search  of  him.  It  was  a  fine  thing,  that 
throbbing  humanity,  which  could  in  those  days 
burst  the  reformer  out  of  the  evangelical  husk, 
and  I  learned  my  lesson  from  it.  ("  Where  did 
she  get  it  ?  "  conservative  friends  used  to  wail, 
whenever  I  was  seen  to  have  tumbled  into  the 
last  new  and  unfashionable  reform.) 

From  his  own  lips,  too,  I  heard  the  accounts 
of  that  extraordinary  case  of  house-possession 
of  which  (like  Wesley)  this  innocent  and  un 
imaginative  country  minister,  who  had  no  more 
faith  in  "spooks  "  than  he  had  in  Universalists, 
was  made  the  astonished  victim. 

Night  upon  night  I  have  crept  gasping  to 
bed,  and  shivered  for  hours  with  my  head  under 
the  clothes,  after  an  evening  spent  in  listening 
to  this  authentic  and  fantastic  family  tale.  How 
the  candlesticks  walked  out  into  the  air  from 
the  mantelpiece  and  back  again  ;  how  the  chairs 
of  skeptical  visitors  collected  from  all  parts  of 
the  country  to  study  what  one  had  hardly  then 
begun  to  call  the  "  phenomena  "  at  the  parson 
age  at  Stratford,  Connecticut,  hopped  after  the 
6 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

guests  when  they  crossed  the  room ;  how  the 
dishes  at  the  table  leaped,  and  the  silver  forks 
were  bent  by  unseen  hands,  and  cold  turnips 
dropped  from  the  solid  ceiling ;  and  ghastly 
images  were  found,  composed  of  underclothing 
proved  to  have  been  locked  at  the  time  in 
drawers  of  which  the  only  key  lay  all  the  while 
in  Dr.  Phelps's  pocket ;  and  how  the  mysterious 
agencies,  purporting  by  alphabetical  raps  upon 
bed-head  or  on  table  to  be  in  torments  of  the 
nether  world,  being  asked  what  their  host  could 
do  to  relieve  them,  demanded  a  piece  of  squash 
pie. 

From  the  old  man's  own  calm  hands,  within 
a  year  or  two  of  his  death,  I  received  the  legacy 
of  the  written  journal  of  these  phenomena,  as 
recorded  by  the  victim  from  day  to  day,  during 
the  seven  months  that  this  mysterious  misfor 
tune  dwelt  within  his  house. 

It  may  be  prudent  to  say,  just  here,  that  it 
will  be  quite  useless  to  make  any  further  in 
quiries  of  me  upon  the  subject,  or  to  ask  of  me 
—  a  request  which  has  been  repeated  till  I  am 
fain  to  put  an  end  to  it  —  for  either  loan  or 
copy  of  these  records  for  the  benefit  of  either 
personal  or  scientific  curiosity.  Both  loaning 
and  copying  are  now  impossible,  and  have  been 
made  so  by  family  wishes  which  will  be  sacredly 
respected.  The  phenomena  themselves  have 
7 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

long  been  too  widely  known  to  be  ignored,  and 
I  have  no  hesitation  in  making  reference  to 
them. 

Perhaps  it  is  partly  on  account  of  the  tradi 
tions  respecting  this  bit  of  family  history  that  I 
am  so  often  asked  if  I  am  a  spiritualist.  I  am 
sometimes  tempted  to  reply  in  grammar  com 
prehensible  to  the  writers  of  certain  letters 
which  I  receive  upon  the  subject :  — 

"  No  ;  nor  none  of  our  folks  !  " 

How  the  Connecticut  parson  on  whom  this 
mysterious  infliction  fell  ever  came  out  of  it 
not  a  spiritualist,  who  can  tell  ?  That  the  phe 
nomena  were  facts,  and  facts  explicable  by  no 
known  natural  law,  he  was  forced,  like  others 
in  similar  positions,  to  believe  and  admit.  That 
he  should  study  thet  subject  of  spiritualism  care 
fully  from  then  until  the  end  of  his  life,  was 
inevitable. 

But,  as  nearly  as  I  can  make  it  out,  on  the 
whole,  he  liked  his  Bible  better. 

Things  like  these  did  not  happen  on  Andover 
Hill ;  and  my  talks  with  this  very  interesting 
grandfather  gave  me  my  first  vivid  sensation  of 
the  possibilities  of  life. 

With  what  thrills  of  hope  and  fear  I  listened 
for  thumps  on  the  head  of  my  bed,  or  watched 
anxiously  to  see  my  candlestick  walk  out  into 
the  air ! 

8 


1 


REV.    DR.    E.    PHELPS 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

But  not  a  thump  !  Not  a  rap !  Never  a 
snap  of  the  weakest  proportions  (not  explicable 
by  natural  laws)  has,  from  that  day  to  this, 
visited  my  personal  career.  Not  a  candlestick 
ever  walked  an  inch  for  me.  I  have  never  been 
able  to  induce  a  chair  to  hop  after  me.  No 
turnip  has  consented  to  drop  from  the  ceiling 
for  me.  Planchette,  in  her  day,  wrote  hundreds 
of  lines  for  me,  but  never  one  that  was  of  the 
slightest  possible  significance  to  me  or  to  the 
universe  at  large.  Never  did  a  medium  tell  me 
anything  that  ever  came  to  pass ;  though  one 
of  tnem  once  made  a  whole  winter  miserable 
by  prophesying  a  death  which  did  not  occur. 

Being  destitute  of  objections  to  belief  in  the 
usefulness  of  spiritualistic  mystery,  —  in  fact, 
by  temperament,  perhaps  inclining  to  hope  that 
such  phenomena  may  be  tamed  and  yoked,  and 
made  to  work  for  human  happiness,  —  yet  there 
seems  to  be  something  about  me  which  these 
agencies  do  not  find  congenial.  Though  I  have 
gone  longing  for  a  sign,  no  sign  has  been  given 
me.  Though  I  have  been  always  ready  to  be 
lieve  all  other  people's  mysteries,  no  inexplicable 
facts  have  honored  my  experience. 

The  only  personal  prophecy  ever  strictly  ful 
filled  in  my  life  was  —  I  am  not  certain  whether 
I  ought  to  feel  embarrassed  in  alluding  to  it  — 
made  by  a  gypsy  fortune-teller.  She  was  young 
9 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE      f 

and  pretty,  the  seventh  child  of  a  seventh  child, 
and  she  lived  in  a  Massachusetts  shoe-town  by 
the  name  of  Lynn.  And  what  was  it  ?  Oh, 
but  you  must  excuse  me. 

The  grandfather  to  whom  these  marvels  hap 
pened  was  not,  as  I  say,  a  literary  man ;  yet 
even  he  did  write  a  little  book  —  a  religious 
tale,  or  tract,  after  the  manner  of  his  day  and 
profession  ;  and  it  took  to  itself  a  circulation  of 
two  hundred  thousand  copies.  I  remember  how 
Mr.  James  T.  Fields  laughed  when  he  heard  of 
it  —  that  merry  laugh  peculiar  to  himself. 

"You  can't  help  it,"  the  publisher  said; 
"you  come  of  a  family  of  large  circulations." 

One  day  I  was  at  school  with  my  brother,  — 
a  little,  private  school,  down  by  what  were 
called  the  English  dormitories  in  Andover. 

I  was  eight  years  old.  Some  one  came  in 
and  whispered  to  the  teacher.  Her  face  turned 
very  grave,  and  she  came  up  to  us  quietly,  and 
called  us  out  into  the  entry,  and  gently  put  on 
our  things. 

"You  are  to  go  home,"  she  said;  "your 
mother  is  dead."  I  took  my  little  brother's 
hand  without  a  word,  and  we  trudged  off.  I 
do  not  think  we  spoke  —  I  am  sure  we  did  not 
cry  —  on  the  way  home.  I  remember  perfectly 
that  we  were  very  gayly  dressed.  Our  mother 
liked  bright,  almost  barbaric  colors  on  children. 
10 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

The  little  boy's  coat  was  of  red  broadcloth,  and 
my  cape  of  a  canary  yellow,  dyed  at  home  in 
white-oak  dye.  The  two  colors  flared  before 
my  eyes  as  we  shuffled  along  and  crushed  the 
crisp,  dead  leaves  that  were  tossing  in  the 
autumn  wind  all  over  Andover  Hill. 

When  we  got  home  they  told  us  it  was  a 
mistake  ;  she  was  not  dead  ;  and  we  were  sent 
back  to  school.  But,  in  a  few  weeks  after  that, 
one  day  we  were  told  we  need  not  go  to  school 
at  all ;  the  red  and  yellow  coats  came  off,  and 
little  bla:k  ones  took  their  places.  The  new 
baby,  in  his  haggard  father's  arms,  was  baptized 
at  his  mother's  funeral ;  and  we  looked  on,  and 
wondered  what  it  all  meant,  and  what  became 
of  children  whose  mother  was  obliged  to  go  to 
heaven  when  she  seemed  so  necessary  in  An 
dover. 

At  eight  years  of  age  a  child  cannot  be  ex 
pected  to  know  her  mother  intimately,  and  it  is 
hard  for  me  always  to  distinguish  between  the 
effect  produced  upon  me  by  her  literary  success 
as  I  have  since  understood  it,  and  that  left  by 
her  own  truly  extraordinary  personality  upon 
the  annals  of  the  nursery. 

My  mother,  whose  name  I  arn  proud  to  wear, 

was  the  eldest  daughter  of   Professor  Stuart, 

and  inherited  his  intellectuality.     At  the  time 

of  her  death  she  was  at  the  first  blossom  of  her 

ii 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

very  positive  and  widely-promising  success  as  a 
writer  of  the  simple  home  stories  which  took 
such  a  hold  upon  the  popular  heart.  Her 
"  Sunnyside  "  had  already  reached  a  circulation 
of  one  hundred  thousand  copies,  and  she  was 
following  it  fast  —  too  fast  —  by  other  books 
for  which  the  critics  and  the  publishers  clamored. 
Her  last  book  and  her  last  baby  came  together, 
and  killed  her.  She  lived  one  of  those  rich  and 
piteous  lives  such  as  only  gifted  women  know ; 
torn  by  the  civil  war  of  the  dual  nature  which 
can  be  given  to  women  only.  It  was  as  natural 
for  her  daughter  to  write  as  to  breathe  ;  but  it 
was  impossible  for  her  daughter  to  forget  that 
a  woman  of  intellectual  power  could  be  the 
most  successful  of  mothers. 

"Everybody's  mother  is  a  remarkable  wo 
man,"  my  father  used  to  say  when  he  read 
overdrawn  memoirs  indited  by  devout  children  ; 
and  yet  I  have  sometimes  felt  as  if  even  the 
generation  that  knows  her  not  would  feel  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  interest  in  the  tact  and  power  by 
which  this  unusual  woman  achieved  the  difficult 
reconciliation  between  genius  and  domestic  life. 

In  our  times  and  to  our  women  such  a  prob 
lem  is  practical,  indeed.  One  need  not  pos 
sess  genius  to  understand  it  now.  A  career  is 
enough. 

The  author  of  "  Sunnyside,"  "  The  Angel  on 
12 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

the  Right  Shoulder,"  and  "  Peep  at  Number 
Five,"  lived  before  women  had  careers  and 
public  sympathy  in  them.  Her  >  nature  was 
drawn  against  the  grain  of  her  times  and  of  her 
circumstances  ;  and  where  our  feet  find  easy 
walking,  hers  were  hedged.  A  child's  memo 
ries  go  for  something  by  way  of  tribute  to  the 
achievement  of  one  of  those  rare  women  of 
the  elder  time  whose  gifts  forced  her  out,  but 
whose  heart  held  her  in. 

I  can  remember  no  time  when  I  did  not  un 
derstand  that  my  mother  must  write  books  be 
cause  people  would  have  and  read  them ;  but  I 
cannot  remember  one  hour  in  which  her  chil 
dren  needed  her  and  did  not  find  her. 

My  first  distinct  vision  of  this  kind  of  a  mo 
ther  gives  her  by  the  nursery  lamp,  reading  to 
us  her  own  stories,  written  for  ourselves,  never 
meant  to  go  beyond  that  little  public  of  two, 
and  illustrated  in  colored  crayons  by  her  own 
pencil.  For  her  gift  in  this  direction  was  of  an 
original  quality,  and  had  she  not  been  a  writer 
she  must  have  achieved  something  as  an  artist. 

Perhaps  it  was  to  keep  the  standards  up,  and 
a  little  girl's  filial  adoration  down,  that  these 
readings  ended  with  some  classic  —  Words 
worth,  I  remember  most  often  —  "  We  are 
Seven,"  or  "Lucy  Gray." 

It  is  certain  that  I  very  early  had  the  convic- 
13 


CHAPTERS  FROM   A   LIFE 

tion  that  a  mother  was  a  being  of  power  and 
importance  to  the  world ;  but  that  the  world 
had  no  business  with  her  when  we  wanted  her. 
In  a  word,  she  was  a  strong  and  lovely  symme 
try  —  a  woman  whose  heart  had  not  enfeebled 
her  head,  but  whose  head  could  never  freeze 
her  heart. 

I  hardly  know  which  of  those  charming  ways 
in  which  I  learned  to  spell  the  word  motherhood 
impressed  me  most.  All  seemed  to  go  on  to 
gether  side  by  side  and  step  by  step.  Now  she 
sits  correcting  proof-sheets,  and  now  she  is 
painting  apostles  for  the  baby's  first  Bible  les 
son.  Now  she  is  writing  her  new  book,  and 
now  she  is  dyeing  things  canary-yellow  in  the 
white-oak  dye  —  for  the  professor's  salary  is 
small,  and  a  crushing  economy  was  in  those 
days  one  of  the  conditions  of  faculty  life  on 
Andover  Hill.  Now  —  for  her  practical  inge 
nuity  was  unlimited  —  she  is  whittling  little 
wooden  feet  to  stretch  the  children's  stockings 
on,  to  save  them  from  shrinking ;  and  now  she 
is  reading  to  us  from  the  old,  red  copy  of  Haz- 
litt's  "  British  Poets,"  by  the  register,  upon  a 
winter  night.  Now  she  is  a  popular  writer,  in 
credulous  of  her  first  success,  with  her  future 
flashing  before  her ;  and  now  she  is  a  tired,  ten 
der  mother,  crooning  to  a  sick  child,  while  the 
MS.  lies  unprinted  on  the  table,  and  the  pub- 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

lishers  are  wishing  their  professor's  wife  were  a 
free  woman,  childless  and  solitary,  able  to  send 
copy  as   fast  as   it   is  wanted.     The   struggle 
killed  her,  but  she  fought  till  she  fell. 
In  these  different  days,  when, 

"  Pealing,  the  clock  of  time 
Has  struck  the  Woman's  Hour,"      . 

I  have  sometimes  been  glad,  as  my  time  came 
to  face  the  long  question  which  life  puts  to-day 
to  all  women  who  think  and  feel,  and  who  care 
for  other  women  and  are  loyal  to  them,  that  I 
had  those  early  visions  of  my  own  to  look  upon. 

When  I  was  learning  why  the  sun  rose  and 
the  moon  set,  how  the  flowers  grew  and  the 
rain  fell,  that  God  and  heaven  and  art  and  let 
ters  existed,  that  it  was  intelligent  to  say  one's 
prayers,  and  that  well-bred  children  never  told 
a  lie,  I  learned  that  a  mother  can  be  strong 
and  still  be  sweet,  and  sweet  although  she  is 
strong ;  and  that  she  whom  the  world  and  her 
children  both  have  need  of,  is  of  more  value  to 
each,  for  this  very  reason. 

I  said  it  was  impossible  to  be  her  daughter 
and  not  to  write.  Rather,  I  should  say,  impos 
sible  to  be  their  daughter  and  not  to  have  some 
thing  to  say,  and  a  pen  to  say  it. 

The  comparatively  recent  close  of  my  father's 
life  has  not  left  him  yet  forgotten,  and  it  can 
hardly  be  necessary  for  me  to  do  more  than  to 
15 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

refer  to  the  name  of  Austin  Phelps  to  recall  to 
that  part  of  our  public  which  knew  and  loved 
him  the  quality  of  his  work. 

"The  Still  Hour"  is  yet  read,  and  there  are 
enough  who  remember  how  widely  this  book 
has  been  known  and  loved  on  both  sides  of  the 
ocean,  and  how  rich  was  the  professor's  liter 
ary  gift.  His  Andover  lectures,  which  in  their 
published  form  have  become  classics,  stand 
without  peers  to-day,  and  are  the  accepted  text 
books  of  his  department. 

It  has  fallen  to  me  otherwise  to  say  so  much 
of  my  peculiar  indebtedness  to  my  father,  that 
I  shall  forbid  myself,  and  spare  my  reader,  too 
much  repetition  of  a  loving  credit  which  it  would 
not  be  possible  altogether  to  omit  from  this 
chapter. 

He  who  becomes  father  and  mother  in  one 
to  motherless  children,  bears  a  burden  which 
men  shirk  or  stagger  under ;  and  there  was  not 
a  shirking  cell  in  his  brain  or  heart. 

As  I  have  elsewhere  said  :  "There  was  hardly 
a  chapter  in  my  life  of  which  he  was  not  in 
some  sense,  whether  revealed  or  concealed,  the 
hero." 

"  If  I  am  asked  to  sum  in  a  few  words  the 

vivid  points  of  his  influence,  I  find  it  as  hard  to 

give  definite  form  to  my  indebtedness  to  the 

Christian  scholar  whose  daughter  it  is  my  honor 

16 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

to  be,  as  to  specify  the  particulars  in  which  one 
responds  to  sunshine  or  oxygen.  He  was  my 
climate.  As  soon  as  I  began  to  think,  I  began 
to  reverence  thought  and  study  and  the  hard 
work  of  a  man  devoted  to  the  high  ends  of  a 
scholar's  life.  His  department  was  that  of  rhet 
oric,  and  his  appreciation  of  the  uses  and  graces 
of  language  very  early  descended  like  a  mantle 
upon  me.  I  learned  to  read  and  to  love  read 
ing,  not  because  I  was  made  to,  but  because  I 
could  not  help  it.  It  was  the  atmosphere  I 
breathed." 

"Day  after  day  the  watchful  girl  observed 
the  life  of  a  student  —  its  scholarly  tastes,  its 
high  ideals,  its  scorn  of  worldliness  and  paltry 
aims  or  petty  indulgences,  and  forever  its  mag 
nificent  habits  of  work." 

"  At  sixteen,  I  remember,  there  came  to  me 
a  distinct  arousing  or  awakening  to  the  intel 
lectual  life.  As  I  look  back,  I  see  it  in  a  flash 
light.  Most  of  the  important  phases  or  crises 
of  our  lives  can  be  traced  to  some  one  influence 
or  event,  and  this  one  I  connect  directly  with 
the  reading  to  me  by  my  father  of  the  writings 
of  De  Quincey  and  the  poems  of  Wordsworth. 
Every  one  who  has  ever  heard  him  preach  or 
lecture  remembers  the  rare  quality  of  Professor 
Phelps's  voice.  As  a  pulpit  orator  he  was  one 
of  the  few,  and  to  hear  him  read  in  his  own 
17 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

study  was  an  absorbing  experience.  To  this 
day  I  cannot  put  myself  outside  of  certain 
pages  of  the  laureate  or  the  essayist.  I  do  not 
read  ;  I  listen.  The  great  lines  beginning  — 

"  '  Thanks  to  the  human  heart  by  which  we  live, 
Thanks  to  its  tenderness,  its  joys  and  fears ; ' 

the  great  passage  which  opens  :  *  Then  like  a 
chorus  the  passion  deepened/  and  which  rises 
to  the  aching  cry  :  '  Everlasting  farewells  !  .  .  . 
Everlasting  farewells  ! '  ring  in  my  ears  as  they 
left  his  lips." 

For  my  first  effort  to  sail  the  sea  of  letters, 
it  occurs  to  me  that  I  ought  to  say  that  my 
father's  literary  reputation  cannot  be  held  re 
sponsible. 

I  had  reached  (to  take  a  step  backwards  in 
the  story)  the  mature  age  of  thirteen.  I  was 
a  little  girl  in  low-necked  gingham  dresses,  I 
know,  because  I  remember  I  had  on  one  (of  a 
purple  shade,  and  incredibly  unbecoming  to  a 
half -grown,  brunette  girl)  one  evening  when  my 
first  gentleman  caller  came  to  see  me. 

I  felt  that  the  fact  that  he  was  my  Sunday- 
school  teacher  detracted  from  the  importance 
of  the  occasion,  but  did  not  extinguish  it. 

It  was  perhaps  half -past  eight,  and,  obediently 
to  law  and  gospel,  I  had  gone  upstairs. 

The  actual  troubles  of  life  have  never  dulled 
18 


AN  ANDOVER   HOME 

my  sense  of  mortification  at  overhearing  from 
my  little  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  where 
I  was  struggling  to  get  into  that  gingham  gown 
and  present  a  tardy  appearance,  a  voice  dis 
tinctly  excusing  me  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
past  her  usual  bedtime,  and  she  had  gone  to 
bed. 

Whether  the  anguish  of  that  occasion  so  far 
aged  me  that  it  had  anything  to  do  with  my  first 
literary  undertaking,  I  cannot  say ;  but  I  am 
sure  that  it  was  during  this  particular  year  that 
I  determined  to  become  an  individual  and  con 
tribute  to  the  "  Youth's  Companion." 

I  did  so.  My  contribution  was  accepted  and 
paid  for  by  the  appearance  in  my  father's  post- 
office  box  of  the  paper  for  a  year ;  and  my 
impression  is  that  I  wore  high-necked  dresses 
pretty  soon  thereafter,  and  was  allowed  to  sit  up 
till  nine  o'clock.  At  any  rate,  these  memorable 
events  are  distinctly  intertwined  in  my  mind. 

This  was  in  the  days  when  even  the  "  Com 
panion,"  that  oldest  and  most  delightful  of  chil 
dren's  journals,  printed  things  like  these  :  — 

"  WHY  JULIA  B.  LOVED  THE  COUNTRY. 

"  Julia  B.  loved  the  country  because  whenever  she  walked  out  she 
could  see  God  in  the  face  of  Nature." 

I  really  think  that  the  semi-column  which  I 
sent  to  that  distinguished  paper  was  a  tone  or 
'9 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A    LIFE 

two  above  this.  But  I  can  remember  nothing 
about  it,  except  that  there  was  a  sister  who  neg 
lected  her  little  brothers,  and  hence  defeated 
the  first  object  of  existence  in  a  woman-child. 
It  was  very  proper,  and  very  pious,  and  very 
much  like  what  well-brought-up  little  girls  were 
taught  to  do,  to  be,  to  suffer,  or  to  write  in 
those  days.  I  have  often  intended  to  ask  Mr. 
Ford  if  the  staff  discovered  any  signs  of  literary 
promise  in  that  funny  little  performance. 

At  all  events,  my  literary  ambitions,  with 
this  solitary  exercise,  came  to  a  sudden  suspen 
sion.  I  have  no  recollection  of  having  written 
or  of  having  wanted  to  write  anything  more  for 
a  long  time. 

I  was  not  in  the  least  a  precocious  young 
person,  and  very  much  of  a  tomboy  into  the 
bargain.  I  think  I  was  far  more  likely  to  have 
been  found  on  the  top  of  an  apple-tree  or  walk 
ing  the  length  of  the  seminary  fence  than  writ 
ing  rhymes  or  reading  "  solid  reading."  I  know 
that  I  was  once  told  by  a  queer  old  man  in  the 
street  that  little  girls  should  not  walk  fences, 
and  that  I  stood  still  and  looked  at  him,  trans 
fixed  with  contempt.  I  do  not  think  I  vouch 
safed  him  any  answer  at  all.  But  this  must 
have  been  while  I  was  still  in  the  little  gingham 
gowns. 

Perhaps   this   is   the  place,  if   anywhere,  to 
20 


AN  ANDOVER  HOME 

mention  the  next  experiment  at  helping  along 
the  literature  of  my  native  land  of  which  I  have 
any  recollection.  There  was  another  little  con 
tribution  —  a  pious  little  contribution,  like  the 
first.  When  it  was  written,  or  what  it  was 
about,  or  where  it  was  printed,  it  is  impossible 
to  remember ;  but  I  know  that  it  appeared  in 
some  extremely  orthodox  young  people's  peri 
odical  —  I  think,  one  with  a  missionary  predi 
lection.  The  point  of  interest  I  find  to  have 
been  that  I  was  paid  for  it. 

With  the  exception  of  some  private  capital 
amassed  by  abstaining  from  butter  (a  method 
of  creating  a  fortune  of  whose  wisdom,  I  must 
say,  I  had  the  same  doubts  then  that  I  have 
now),  this  was  the  first  money  I  had  ever  earned. 
The  sum  was  two  dollars  and  a  half.  It  became 
my  immediate  purpose  not  to  squander  this 
wealth.  I  had  no  spending  money  in  particular 
that  I  recall.  Three  cents  a  week  was,  I  be 
lieve,  for  years  the  limit  of  my  personal  income, 
and  I  am  compelled  to  own  that  this  sum  was 
not  expended  at  book-stalls,  or  for  the  benefit 
of  the  heathen  who  appealed  to  the  generosity 
of  professors'  daughters  through  the  treasurer 
of  the  chapel  Sunday-school ;  but  went  solidly 
for  cream  cakes  and  apple  turnovers  alternately, 
one  each  week. 

Two  dollars  and  a  half  represented  to  me 

21 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

a  standard  of  munificent  possession  which  it 
would  be  difficult  to  make  most  girls  in  their 
first  teens,  and  socially  situated  to-day  as  I  was 
then,  understand.  To  waste  this  fortune  in 
riotous  living  was  impossible.  From  the  hour 
that  I  received  that  check  for  "two-fifty,"  cream 
cakes  began  to  wear  a  juvenile  air,  and  turn 
overs  seemed  unworthy  of  my  position  in  life. 
I  remember  begging  to  be  allowed  to  invest 
the  sum  "in  pictures,"  and  that  my  father,  gen 
tly  diverting  my  selection  from  a  frowsy  and 
popular  "  Hope  "  at  whose  memory  I  shudder 
even  yet,  induced  me  to  find  that  I  preferred 
some  excellent  photographs  of  Thorwaldsen's 
"  Night  "  and  "  Morning,"  which  he  framed  for 
me,  and  which  hang  in  our  rooms  to-day. 

It  is  impossible  to  forget  the  sense  of  dignity 
which  marks  the  hour  when  one  becomes  a 
wage-earner.  The  humorous  side  of  it  is  the 
least  of  it  —  or  was  in  my  case.  I  felt  that  I 
had  suddenly  acquired  value  —  to  myself,  to  my 
family,  and  to  the  world. 

Probably  all  people  who  write  "  for  a  living  " 
would  agree  with  me  in  recalling  the  first  check 
as  the  largest  and  most  luxurious  of  life. 

22 


II 

ANDOVER  LIFE  AND  PEOPLE 

ANDOVER  is  —  or  Andover  was  —  like  the 
lady  to  whom  Steele  gave  immortality  in  the 
finest  and  most  famous  epigram  ever  offered  to 
woman. 

To  have  loved  Andover ;  to  have  been  born 
in  Andover  —  I  am  brought  up  short,  in  these 
notes,  by  the  sudden  recollection  that  I  was  not 
born  in  Andover.  It  has  always  been  so  diffi 
cult  to  believe  it,  that  I  am  liable  any  day  to 
forget  it ;  but  the  facts  compel  me  to  infer  that 
I  was  born  within  a  mile  of  the  State  House. 
I  must  have  become  a  citizen  of  Andover  at  the 
age  of  three,  when  my  father  resigned  his  Bos 
ton  pulpit  for  the  professorship  of  Rhetoric  and 
Homiletics  in  Andover  Seminary.  I  remember 
distinctly  our  arrival  at  the  white  mansion  with 
the  large,  handsome  grounds,  the  distant  and 
mysterious  grove,  the  rotund  horse-chestnut 
trees,  venerable  and  solemn,  nearly  a  century 
old  —  to  this  day  a  horse-chestnut  always  seems 
to  me  like  a  theological  trustee  —  and  the  sweep 
of  playground  so  vast,  so  soft,  so  green,  so  fra- 
23 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

grant,  so  clean,  that  the  baby  cockney  ran  impe 
riously  to  her  father  and  demanded  that  he  go 
build  her  a  brick  sidewalk  to  play  upon. 

What,  I  wonder,  may  be  the  earliest  act  of 
memory  on  record  ?  Mine  is  not  at  all  unusual 
—  dating  only  to  two  and  a  half  years  ;  at  which 
time  I  clearly  remember  being  knocked  down 
by  my  dog,  in  my  father's  area  in  Boston,  and 
being  crowed  over  by  a  rooster  of  abnormal 
proportions  who  towered  between  me  and  the 
sky,  a  dragon  in  size  and  capabilities. 

My  father  always  maintained  that  he  distinctly 
remembered  hearing  the  death  of  Napoleon  an 
nounced  in  his  presence  when  he  was  one  year 
and  a  half  old. 

Is  the  humiliating  difference  between  the 
instinctive  selection  of  Napoleon  and  that  of 
the  rooster  one  of  temperament  or  sex  ?  In 
either  case,  it  is  significant  enough  to  lead  one 
to  drop  the  subject. 

Next  to  having  been  born  in  a  university 
town,  comes  the  advantage  —  if  it  be  an  advan 
tage —  of  having  spent  one's  youth  there.  Mr. 
Howells  says  that  he  must  be  a  dull  fellow  who 
does  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  hate  his  native 
village ;  and  I  must  confess  that  I  have  not,  at 
all  stages  of  my  life,  held  my  present  opinion 
of  Andover.  There  have  been  times  when  her 
gentle  indifference  to  the  preoccupations  of  the 
24 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND   PEOPLE 

world  has  stung  me,  as  all  serenity  stings  rest 
lessness.  There  have  been  times  when  the  in 
evitable  limitations  of  her  horizon  have  seemed 
as  familiar  as  the  coffin-lid  to  the  dead. 

There  was  an  epoch  when  her  theology  — 
But,  nevertheless,  I  certainly  look  back  upon 
Andover  Hill  with  a  very  real  pleasure  and 
heartfelt  sense  of  debt. 

It  has  been  particularly  asked  of  me  to  give 
some  form  to  my  recollections  of  a  phase  of 
local  life  which  is  now  so  obviously  passing  away 
thai;  it  has  a  certain  historical  interest. 

That  Andover  remains  upon  the  map  of 
Massachusetts  yet,  one  does  not  dispute ;  but 
the  Andover  of  New  England  theology  —  the 
Andover  of  a  peculiar  people,  the  Andover  that 
held  herself  apart  from  the  world  and  all  that 
was  therein  —  will  soon  become  an  interesting 
wraith. 

The  life  of  a  professor's  daughter  in  a  univer 
sity  town  is  always  a  little  different  from  the 
lives  of  other  girls ;  but  the  difference  seems  to 
me  —  unless  she  be  by  nature  entirely  alien  to 
it  —  in  favor  of  the  girl.  Were  I  to  sum  in  one 
word  my  impressions  of  the  influences  of  An-  , 
dover  life  upon  a  robust  young  mind  and  heart, 
I  should  call  them  gentle. 

As  soon  as  we  began  to  think,  we  saw  a  com 
munity  engaged  in  studying  thought.     As  soon 
25 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

as  we  began  to  feel,  we  were  aware  of  a  neigh 
borhood  that  did  not  feel  superficially ;  at  least, 
in  certain  higher  directions.  When  we  began 
to  ask  the  "questions  of  life,"  which  all  in 
telligent  young  people  ask  sooner  or  later, 
we  found  ourselves  in  a  village  of  three  insti 
tutions  and  their  dependencies  committed  to 
the  pursuit  of  an  ideal  of  education  for  which 
no  amount  of  later,  or  what  we  call  broader, 
training  ever  gives  us  any  better  word  than 
Christian. 

Such  things  tell.  Andover  girls  did  not 
waltz,  or  suffer  summer  engagements  at  Bar 
Harbor,  a  new  one  every  year ;  neither  did  they 
read  Ibsen  or  yellow  novels  ;  nor  did  they  han 
dle  the  French  stories  that  are  hidden  from 
parents,  though  they  were  excellent  French 
scholars  in  their  day. 

I  do  not  even  know  that  one  can  call  them 
more  "serious"  than  their  city  sisters;  for  we 
were  a  merry  lot,  at  least,  my  lot  were.  But 
they  were,  I  believe,  especially  open-hearted, 
gentle-minded  girls. 

If  they  were  "out  of  the  world "  to  a  certain 
extent,  they  were,  to  another,  out  of  the  evil  of 
it.  As  I  look  back  upon  the  little  drama  be 
tween  twelve  and  twenty,  —  I  might  rather  say, 
between  two  and  twenty,  —  Andover  young  peo 
ple  seem  to  me  to  have  been  as  truly  and  nat- 
26 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND   PEOPLE 

urally  innocent  as  one  may  meet  anywhere  in 
the  world.  Some  of  these  private  records  of 
girl-history  were  so  white,  so  clear,  so  sweet, 
that  to  read  them  would  be  like  watching  a 
morning-glory  open.  The  world  is  full,  thank 
Heaven,  of  lovely  girls  ;  but  though  other  forms 
or  phases  of  gentle  society  claim  their  full 
quota,  I  never  saw  a  lovelier  than  those  I  knew 
on  Andover  Hill. 

One  terrible  tragedy,  indeed,  befell  our  little 
"  set ;  "  for  we  had  our  sets  in  Andover  as  well 
as  they  of  Newport  or  New  York. 

A  high-bred  girl  of  exceptional  beauty  was 
furtively  kissed  one  evening  by  a  daring  boy 
(not  a  native  of  Andover,  I  hasten  to  explain), 
and  the  furore  which  followed  this  unprece 
dented  enormity  it  would  be  impossible  to  de 
scribe  to  a  member  of  more  complicated  circles 
of  society.  Fancy  the  reception  given  such  a 
commonplace  at  any  of  our  fashionable  summer 
resorts  to-day ! 

On  Andover  Hill  the  event  was  a  moral  cata 
clysm.  Andover  girls  were  country  girls,  but 
not  of  rustic  (any  more  than  of  metropolitan) 
social  training.  Which  of  them  would  have 
suffered  an  Academy  boy,  walking  home  with 
her  from  a  lecture  or  a  prayer-meeting,  any 
little  privilege  which  he  might  not  have  taken 
in  her  father's  house  and  with  her  mother's 

27 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

knowledge  ?  I  never  knew  one.  The  case  of 
which  I  speak  was  historic,  and  as  far  as  I  ever 
knew,  unique,  and  was  that  of  a  victim,  not  an 
offender. 

The  little  beauty  to  whom  this  atrocity  hap 
pened  cried  all  night  and  all  the  next  day  ;  she 
was  reported  not  to  have  stopped  crying  for 
twenty-six  hours.  Her  pretty  face  grew  wan 
and  haggard.  She  was  too  ill  to  go  to  her 
lessons. 

The  teachers  —  to  whom  she  had  promptly 
related  the  circumstance  —  condoled  with  her  ; 
the  entire  school  vowed  to  avenge  her  ;  we  were 
a  score  of  as  disturbed  and  indignant  girls  as 
ever  wept  over  woman's  wrongs  or  scorned  a 
man's  depravity. 

Yet,  for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary,  this 
abandoned  young  man  may  have  grown  up  to 
become  a  virtuous  member  of  society,  possibly 
even  an  exemplary  husband  and  father.  I  have 
never  been  able  to  trace  his  history  ;  probably 
the  moral  repulsion  was  too  great. 

Yet  they  were  no  prigs,  for  their  innocence  ! 
Andover  girls,  in  the  best  and  brightest  sense 
of  the  word,  led  a  gay  life. 

The  preponderance  of  young  men  on  the  Hill 
gave  more  than  ample  opportunity  for  well- 
mannered  good  times  ;  and  we  made  the  most 
of  them. 

28 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND    PEOPLE 

Legends  of  the  feminine  triumphs  of  past 
generations  were  handed  breathlessly  down  to 
us,  and  cherished  with  awe.  A  lady  of  the  vil 
lage,  said  to  have  been  once  very  handsome,  was 
credibly  reported  to  have  refused  nineteen  offers 
of  marriage.  Another,  still  plainly  beautiful, 
was  known  to  have  received  and  declined  the 
suits  of  nine  theologues  in  one  winter.  Neither 
of  these  ladies  married.  We  watched  their 
whitening  hairs  and  serene  faces  with  a  certain 
pride  of  sex,  not  easily  to  be  understood  by  a 
man.  When  we  began  to  think  how  many 
times  they  might  have  married,  the  subject  as 
sumed  sensational  proportions.  In  fact,  the 
maiden  ladies  of  Andover  always,  I  fancied, 
regarded  each  other  with  a  peculiar  sense  of 
peace.  Each  knew  —  and  knew  that  the  rest 
knew  —  that  it  was  (to  use  the  Andover  phrase 
ology)  not  of  predestination  or  foreordination, 
but  of  free  will  absolute,  that  an  Andover  girl 
passed  through  life  alone.  This  little  social 
fact,  which  is  undoubtedly  true  of  most,  if  not 
all,  uniyersity  towns,  had  mingled  effects  upon 
impressionable  girls  ;  for  the  proportion  of  mas 
culine  society  was  almost  Western  in  its  munifi 
cence. 

Perhaps  it  is  my  duty  to  say  just  here  that,  if 
honestly  put  to  the  question,  I  should  admit 
that  this  proportion  was  almost  too  munificent 
29 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A  LIFE 

for  the  methods  of  education  then  —  and  still 
to  an  extent  now  —  in  vogue. 

A  la'rge  Academy  for  boys,  and  a  flourishing 
Seminary  for  young  men,  set  across  the  village 
streets  from  two  lively  girls'  schools,  gave  to 
one  observer  of  this  little  scholastic  world  her 
first  argument  for  co-education. 

I  am  confident  that  if  the  boys  who  serenaded 
(right  manfully)  under  the  windows  of  Abbot 
Academy  or  of  "The  Nunnery,"  or  who  found 
their  lady's  colors  on  the  bouquets  that  were 
tossed  from  balconies  of  professors'  houses,  had 
been  put,  class  to  class,  in  competition  with  us, 
they  would  have  wasted  less  time  upon  us  ;  and 
I  could  not  deny  that  if  the  girls  who  cut  little 
holes  in  their  fans  through  which  one  could 
look,  undetected  and  unreproved,  at  one's  favo 
rite  Academy  boy,  on  some  public  occasion, 
had  been  preparing  to  meet  or  pass  that  boy  at 
Euclid  or  Xenophon  recitation  next  morning, 
he  would  have  occupied  less  of  their  fancy. 
Intellectual  competition  is  simpler,  severer,  and 
more  wholesome  than  the  unmitigated  social 
plane ;  and  a  mingling  of  the  two  may  be  found 
calculated  to  produce  the  happiest  results. 

"  Poor  souls !  "  said  a  Boston  lady  once  to 
me,  upon  my  alluding  to  a  certain  literary  club 
which  was  at  that  time  occupying  the  enthusi 
asm  of  the  Hill.  "  Poor  souls  !  I  suppose  they 
30 


ANDOVER  LIFE  AND   PEOPLE 

are  so  starved  for  society  ! "  We  can  fancy  the 
amusement  with  which  this  comment  would 
have  been  received  if  it  had  been  repeated  — 
but  it  never  was  repeated  till  this  moment  —  in 
Andover. 

For  Andover  had  her  social  life,  and  knew 
no  better,  for  the  most  part,  than  to  enjoy  it. 
It  is  true  that  many  of  her  diversions  took  on 
that  religious  or  academic  character  natural  to 
the  place.  Of  village  parish  life  we  knew  no 
thing,  for  our  chapel  was,  like  others  of  its  kind, 
rather  an  exclusive  little  place  of  worship.  We 
were  ignorant  of  pastoral  visits,  deacons,  paro 
chial  gossip,  church  fairs,  and  what  Professor 
Park  used  to  call  "  the  doughnut  business  ; " 
and,  though  we  cultivated  a  weekly  prayer- 
meeting  in  the  lecture-room,  I  think  its  chief 
usefulness  was  as  a  training-school  for  theologi 
cal  students  whose  early  efforts  at  public  exhor- 
fition  (poor  fellows  !)  quaveringly  besought  their 
professors  to  grow  in  grace,  and  admonished  the 
families  of  the  Faculty  circle  to  repent. 

But  we  had  our  lectures  and  our  concerts  — 
quite  distinct,  as  orthodox  circles  will  under 
stand,  from  those  missionary  festivals  which 
went,  I  never  discovered  why,  by  the  name  of 
Monthly  Concerts  —  and  our  Porter  Rhets.  I 
believe  this  cipher  stood  for  Porter  Rhetorical ; 
and  research,  if  pushed  far  enough,  would  de- 
Si 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

velop  the  fact  that  Porter  indicated  a  dead  pro 
fessor  who  once  founded  a  chair  and  a  debating 
society  for  young  men.  Then  we  had  our  anni 
versaries  and  our  exhibitions,  when  we  got  our 
selves  into  our  organdie  muslins  or  best  coats, 
and  listened  to  the  boys  spouting  Greek  and 
Latin  orations  in  the  old,  red  brick  Academy, 
and  heard  the  theological  students  —  but  here 
this  reporter  is  forced  to  pause.  I  suppose  I 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  it,  but  the  fact  is,  that 
I  never  attended  an  anniversary  exercise  of  the 
Seminary  in  my  life.  It  would  be  difficult  to 
say  why.  I  think  my  reluctance  consisted  in 
an  abnormal  objection  to  Trustees.  So  far  as 
I  know,  they  were  an  innocent  set  of  men,  of 
good  reputations  and  quite  harmless.  But  I 
certainly  acquired,  at  a  very  early  age,  an  anti 
pathy  to  this  class  of  Americans,  from  which  I 
have  never  recovered. 

Our  anniversaries  occurred,  according  to  the 
barbaric  custom  of  the  times,  in  the  hottest 
heat  of  August ;  and  if  there  be  a  hotter  place 
in  Massachusetts  than  Andover  was,  I  have  yet 
to  simmer  in  it.  Our  houses  were,  of  course, 
thrown  open,  and  crowded  to  the  shingles. 

I  remember  once  sharing  my  tiny  room  with 

a  little  guest  who  would  not  have  the  window 

open,  though  the  thermometer  had  stood  above 

ninety  day  and  night  for  a  week ;  and  because 

32 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND    PEOPLE 

she  was  a  trustee's  daughter,  I  must  not  com 
plain.  Perhaps  this  experience  emphasized  a 
natural  lack  of  sympathy  with  her  father. 

At  all  events,  I  cherished  a  hidden  antago 
nism  to  these  excellent  and  useful  men,  of 
which  I  make  this  late  and  public  confession. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  everybody  in  Andover 
was  afraid  of  them.  I  "took  it  out"  in  the 
cordial  defiance  of  a  born  rebel. 

Then  we  had  our  tea-parties  —  theological, 
of  course,  —  when  the  students  came  to  tea  in 
alphabetical  order  ;  and  the  professor  told  his 
best  stories  ;  and  the  ladies  of  the  family  were 
expected  to  keep  more  or  less  quiet  while  the 
gentlemen  talked.  But  this,  I  should  say,  was 
of  the  earlier  time. 

And,  of  course,  we  had  the  occasional  supply  ; 
and  as  for  the  clerical  guest,  in  some  shape  he 
was  always  with  us. 

I  remember  the  shocked  expression  on  the 
face  of  a  not  very  eminent  minister,  because  I 
joined  in  the  conversation  when,  in  the  absence 
of  my  father's  wife,  the  new  mother,  it  fell  to 
me  to  take  the  head  of  the  table.  It  was  truly 
a  stimulating  conversation,  intellectual,  and,  like 
all  clerical  conversation,  vivaciously  amusing  ; 
and  it  swept  me  in,  unconsciously.  I  think 
this  occurred  after  I  had  written  "  The  Gates 
Ajar." 

33 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

This  good  man  has  since  become  an  earnest 
anti-suffragist  and  opposer  of  the  movement  for 
the 'higher  education  of  women.  I  can  only 
hope  he  does  not  owe  his  dismal  convictions  to 
the  moral  jar  received  on  that  occasion ;  and  I 
regret  to  learn  that  his  daughter  has  been  for 
bidden  to  go  to  college.  I  ought  in  justice  to 
add  that  I  find  I  do  not  think  of  this  guest  as  a 
representative  of  his  class. 

We  had,  too,  our  levees  —  that  was  the  word  ; 
by  it  one  meant  what  is  now  called  a  reception. 
I  have  been  told  that  my  mother,  who  was  a 
woman  of  marked  social  tastes  and  gifts,  op 
pressed  by  the  lack  of  variety  in  Andover  life, 
originated  this  innocent  form  of  dissipation. 

These  festivities,  like  others  in  academic 
towns,  were  democratic  to  a  degree  amusing  or 
inspiring,  according  to  the  temperament  of  the 
spectator. 

The  professors'  brilliantly-lighted  drawing- 
rooms  were  thrown  open  to  the  students  and 
families  of  the  Hill.  Distinguished  men  jostled 
the  Academy  boy  who  built  the  furnace  fire  to 
pay  for  his  education,  and  who  might  be  found 
on  the  faculty  some  day,  in  his  turn,  or  might 
himself  acquire  an  enviable  and  well-earned 
celebrity. 

Eminent  guests  from  out  of  town  stood  elbow 
to  elbow  with  poor  theologues  destined  to  the 
34 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND    PEOPLE 

i 

missionary  field,  and  pathetically  observing  the 
Andover  levee  as  one  of  the  last  occasions  of 
civilized  gayety  in  which  it  might  be  theirs  to 
share.  Ladies  from  Beacon  Street  or  from  New 
York  might  be  seen  chatting  with  some  gen 
tle  figure  in  black,  one  of  those  widowed  and 
brave  women  whose  struggles  to  sustain  life 
and  educate  their  children  by  boarding  stu 
dents  form  so  large  a  part  of  the  pathos  of  aca 
demic  towns. 

One  such  I  knew  who  met  on  one  of  these 
occasions  a  member  of  the  club  for  which  she 
provided.  The  lady  was  charming,  well-dressed, 
well-mannered. 

The  young  man,  innocent  of  linen,  had  ap 
peared  at  the  levee  in  a  gray  flannel  shirt.  In 
troductions  passed.  The  lady  bowed. 

"I  am  happy,"  stammered  the  poor  fellow, 
"  I  am  happy  to  meet  the  woman  who  cooks 
our  victuals." 

If  it  be  asked,  Why  educate  a  man  like  that 
for  the  Christian  ministry  ?  —  but  it  was  not 
asked.  Like  all  monstrosities,  he  grew  without 
permission. 

Let  us  hasten  to  call  him  the  exception  that 
he  was  to  what,  on  the  whole,  was  (in  those 
days)  a  fair,  wholesome  rule  of  theological  se 
lection.  The  professor's  eyes  flashed  when  he 
heard  the  story. 

35 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A    LIFE 

"I  have  never  approved,"  I  think  he  said, 
"of  the  Special  Course." 

For  the  professor  believed  in  no  short-cut  to 
the  pulpit ;  but  pleaded  for  all  the  education,  all 
the  opportunity,  all  the  culture,  all  the  gifts,  all 
the  graces  possible  to  a  man's  privilege  or  en 
ergy,  whereby  to  fit  him  to  preach  the  Christian 
religion.  But,  like  other  professors,  he  could 
not  always  have  his  way. 

It  ought  to  be  said,  perhaps,  that,  beside  the 
self-made  or  self-making  man,  there  always  sat 
upon  the  old  benches  in  the  lecture-room  a  cer- 
'tain  proportion  of  gentlemen  born  and  bred  to 
ease  and  affluence,  who  had  chosen  their  life's 
work  from  motives  which  were,  at  least,  as 
much  to  be  respected  as  the  struggles  of  the 
converted  newsboy  or  the  penitent  expressman. 

Take  her  at  her  dullest,  I  think  we  were  very 
fond  of  Andover ;  and  though  we  dutifully  im 
proved  our  opportunities  to  present  ourselves  in 
other  circles  of  society,  yet,  like  fisher-folk  or 
mountain-folk,  we  were  always  uneasy  away 
from  home.  I  remember  on  my  first  visit  to 
New  York  or  Boston  —  and  this  although  my 
father  was  with  me  —  quietly  crying  my  eyes 
out  behind  the  tall,  embroidered  screen  which 
the  hostess  moved  before  the  grate,  because 
the  fire-light  made  me  so  homesick.  Who  for 
gets  his  first  attack  of  nostalgia  ?  Alas  !  so  far 
36 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND   PEOPLE 

as  this  recorder  is  concerned,  the  first  was  too 
far  from  the  last.  For  I  am  cursed  (or  blessed) 
with  a  love  of  home  so  inevitable  and  so  pas 
sionate  as  to  be  nothing  less  than  ridiculous 
to  my  day  and  generation  —  a  day  of  rovers,  a 
generation  of  shawl-straps  and  valises. 

"  Do  you  never  want  to  stay  ?"  I  once  asked 
a  distinguished  author  whose  domestic  uproot- 
ings  were  so  frequent  as  to  cause  remark  even 
in  America. 

"I  am  the  most  homesick  man  who  ever 
lived,"  he  responded  sadly.  "  If  I  only  pass  a 
night  in  a  sleeping-car,  I  hate  to  leave  my  berth." 

"  You  must  have  cultivated  society  in  An- 
dover,"  an  eminent  Cambridge  writer  once  said 
to  me,  with  more  sincerity  of  tone  than  was 
to  be  expected  of  the  Cambridge  accent  as  ad 
dressed  to  the  Andover  fact.  I  was  young 
then,  and  I  remember  to  have  answered,  hon 
estly  enough,  but  with  what  must  have  struck 
this  superior  man  as  unpardonable  flippancy  :  — 

"  Oh,  but  one  gets  tired  of  seeing  only  culti 
vated  people ! " 

I  have  thought  of  it  sometimes  since,  when, 
in  other  surroundings,  the  memory  of  that 
peaceful,  scholarly  life  has  returned  poignantly 
to  me. 

When  one  can  "run  in"  any  day  to  homes 
like  those  on  that  quiet  and  conscientious  Hill, 
37 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

one  may  not  do  it ;  but  when  one  cannot,  one 
appreciates  their  high  and  gentle  influence. 

One  of  the  historic  figures  of  my  day  in 
Andover  was  Professor  Park.  Equally  eminent 
both  as  a  preacher -and  as  a  theologian,  his  fame 
was  great  in«  Zion  ;  and  "the  world  "  itself  had 
knowledge  of  him,  and  did  him  honor. 

He  was  a  striking  figure  in  the  days  which 
were  the  best  of  Andover.  He  was  unquestion 
ably  a  genius ;  the  fact  that  it  was  a  kind  of 
genius  for  which  the  temper  of  our  times  is 
soon  likely  to  find  declining  uses  gives  some 
especial  interest  to  his  name. 

The  appearances  are  that  he  will  be  the  last 
of  his  type,  once  so  powerful  and  still  so  vener 
able  in  New  England  history.  He  wears  (for 
he  is  yet  living)  the  dignity  of  a  closing  cycle ; 
there  is  something  sad  and  grand  about  his 
individualism,  as  there  is  about  the  last  great 
chief  of  a  tribe  or  the  last  king  of  a  dynasty. 

In  his  youth  he  was  the  progressive  of  evan 
gelical  theology.  In  his  age  he  stands  the 
proud  and  reticent  conservative,  the  now  silent 
representative  of  a  departed  glory,  a  departed 
severity  —  and,  we  must  admit,  of  a  departed 
strength  —  from  which  the  theology  of  our 
times  has  melted  away.  Like  other  men  in 
such  positions,  he  has  had  battles  to  fight,  and 
he  has  fought  them  ;  enemies  to  make,  and  he 
33 


ANDOVER   LIFE  AND   PEOPLE 

has  made  them.  How  can  he  keep  them  ?  He 
is  growing  old  so  gently  and  so  kindly  !  Ardent 
friends  and  worshiping  admirers  he  has  always 
had,  and  kept,  and  deserved. 

A  lady  well  known  among  the  writers  of  our 
day,  herself  a  professor's  daughter  from  a  New 
England  college  town,  happened  once  to  be 
talking  with  me  in  a  lonely  hour  and  in  a  mood 
of  confidence. 

"  Oh,"  she  cried,  "  it  seems  some  of  these 
desolate  nights  as  if  I  must  go  home  and  sit 
watching  for  my  father  to  come  back  from  fac 
ulty  meeting !  " 

But  the  tears  smote  her  face,  and  she  turned 
away.  I  knew  that  she  had  been  her  dead  fa 
ther's  idol,  and  he  hers. 

To  her  listener  what  a  panorama  in  those 
two  words  :  "  Faculty  meeting  !  " 

Every  professor's  daughter,  every  woman 
from  a  university  family,  can  see  it  all.  The 
whole  scholastic  and  domestic,  studious  and 
tender  life  comes  back.  Faculty  meeting  !  We 
wait  for  the  tired  professor  who  had  the  latest 
difference  to  settle  with  his  colleagues,  or  the 
newest  breach  to  soothe,  or  the  favorite  move 
to  push  ;  how  late  he  is  !  He  comes  in  softly, 
haggard  and  spent,  closing  the  door  quietly  so 
that  no  one  shall  be  wakened  by  this  midnight 
dissipation.  The  woman  who  loves  him  most 
39 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

anxiously  —  be  it  wife  or  be  it  daughter  —  is 
waiting  for  him.  Perhaps  there  is  a  little  whis 
pered  sympathy  for  the  trouble  in  the  faculty 
which  he  does  not  tell.  Perhaps  there  is  a  little 
expedition  to  the  pantry  for  a  midnight  lunch. 

My  first  recollections  of  Professor  Park  give 
me  his  tall,  gaunt,  but  well-proportioned  figure 
striding  up  and  down  the  gravel  walks  in  front 
of  the  house,  two  hours  before  time  for  faculty 
meeting,  in  solemn  conclave  with  my  father. 
The  two  were  friends  —  barring  those  inter 
ludes  common  to  all  faculties,  when  professional 
differences  are  in  the  foreground  —  and  the 
pacing  of  their  united  feet  might  have  worn 
Andover  Hill  through  to  the  central  fires.  For 
years  I  cultivated  an  objection  to  Professor 
Park  as  being  the  chief  visible  reason  why  we 
had  to  wait  for  supper. 

I  remember  his  celebrated  sermons  quite 
well.  The  chapel  was  always  thronged,  and  — 
as  there  were  no  particular  fire-laws  in  those 
days  on  Andover  Hill — the  aisles  brimmed 
over  when  it  was  known  that  Professor  Park  or 
Professor  Phelps  was  to  preach.  I  think  I  usu 
ally  began  with  a  little  jealous  counting  of  the 
audience,  lest  it  should  prove  bigger  than  my  fa 
ther's  ;  but  even  a  child  could  not  long  listen  to 
Professor  Park  and  not  forget  her  small  affairs, 
and  all  affairs  except  the  eloquence  of  the  man. 
40 


DR.  EDWARDS   A.    PARK 


ANDOVER   LIFE   AND   PEOPLE 

Great,  I  believe  it  was.  Certain  distinguished 
sermons  had  their  popular  names,  as  "The 
Judas  Sermon,"  or  "The  Peter  Sermon,"  and 
drew  their  admirers  accordingly.  He  was  a 
man  of  marked  emotional  nature,  which  he  often 
found  it  hard  to  control.  A  skeptical  critic 
might  have  wondered  whether  the  tears  welled, 
or  the  face  broke,  or  the  voice  trembled,  always 
just  at  the  right  moment,  from  pure  spontaneity. 
But  those  who  knew  the  preacher  personally 
never  doubted  the  genuineness  of  the  feeling 
that  swept  and  carried  orator  and  hearers  down. 
We  do  not  hear  such  sermons  now. 

Professor  Park  has  always  been  a  man  of 
social  ease  and  wit.  The  last  time  I  saw  him, 
at  the  age  of  eighty-five,  in  his  house  in  Ando- 
ver,  I  thought,  one  need  not  say,  "has  been;" 
and  to  recall  his  brilliant  talk  that  day  gives  me 
hesitation  over  the  past  tense  of  this  reminis 
cence.  On  the  whole,  with  the  exception  of 
Doctor  Holmes,  I  think  I  should  call  Professor 
Park  the  best  converser,  —  at  least  among  emi 
nent  men — whom  I  have  ever  met. 

He  has  always  been  a  man  very  sensitive  to 
the  intellectual  values  of  life,  and  fully  inclined 
perhaps  to  approach  the  spiritual  through  those. 
It  is  easy  to  misunderstand  a  religious  teacher 
of  this  temperament,  and  his  admiring  students 
may  have  sometimes  done  so. 
41 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

One  in  particular  I  remember  to  have  heard 
of  who  neglected  the  lecture-room  to  cultivate 
upon  his  own  responsibility  the  mission  work  of 
what  was  known  as  Abbott  Village.  To  the 
Christian  socialism  of  our  day,  the  misery  of 
factory  life  might  seem  as  important  for  the 
future  clergyman  as  the  system  of  theology 
regnant  in  his  particular  seminary  —  but  that 
was  not  the  fashion  of  the  time  ;  at  all  events, 
the  man  was  a  student  under  the  professor's 
orders,  and  the  orders  were,  Keep  to  the  curri 
culum  ;  and  I  can  but  think  that  the  professor 
was  right  when  he  caustically  said  :  — 

"  That is  wasting  his  seminary  course 

in  what  he  calls  doing  good  !  " 

Sometimes,  too,  the  students  used  to  beg  off 
to  go  on  book-agencies,  or  to  prosecute  other 
forms  of  money-making  ;  and  of  one  such  Pro 
fessor  Park  was  heard  to  say  that  he  "  sacrificed 
his  education  to  get  the  means  of  paying  for  it." 

I  am  indebted  to  Professor  Park  for  this : 
"Professor  Stuart  and  myself  were  reluctant 
to  release  them  from  their  studies.  Professor 
Stuart  remarked  of  one  student  that  he  got  ex 
cused  every  Saturday  for  the  purpose  of  going 
home  for  a  week,  and  always  stayed  a  fortnight" 

The  last  time  that  I  saw  Professor  Park  he 
told  me  a  good  story.  It  concerned  the  days 
of  his  prime,  when  he  had  been  preaching 
42 


ANDOVER   LIFE   AND   PEOPLE 

somewhere  —  in  Boston  or  New  York,  I  think 
—  and  after  the  audience  was  dismissed  a  man 
lingered  and  approached  him. 

"  Sir,"  said  the  stranger,  "  I  am  under  great 
obligations  to  you.  Your  discourse  has  moved 
me  greatly.  I  can  truly  say  that  I  believe  I 
shall  owe  the  salvation  of  my  soul  to  you.  I 
wish  to  offer,  sir,  to  the  seminary  with  which 
you  are  connected,  a  slight  tribute  of  my  ad 
miration  for  and  indebtedness  to  you."  The 
gentleman  drew  out  his  purse. 

"I  waited,  breathless,"  said  Professor  Park, 
with  his  own  tremendous  solemnity  of  manner ; 
"I  awaited  the  tribute  of  that  grateful  man. 
At  what  price  did  he  value  his  soul  ?  I  antici 
pated  a  contribution  for  the  seminary  which  it 
would  be  a  privilege  to  offer.  At  what  rate 
did  my  converted  hearer  price  his  soul  ?  — 
Hundreds  ?  Thousands  ?  Tens  of  thousands  ? 
With  indescribable  dignity  the  man  handed  to 
me  —  a  five-dollar  bill ! " 
43 


Ill 

AT   SCHOOL 

PERHAPS  no  one  has  ever  denied,  or,  more 
definitely,  has  ever  wished  to  deny,  that  An- 
dover  society  consisted  largely  of  people  with 
obvious  religious  convictions  ;  and  that  her  vis 
itors  were  chiefly  of  an  orthodox  congregational 
turn  of  mind.  I  do  not  remember  that  we  ever 
saw  any  reason  for  regret  in  this  "feature"  of 
the  Hill.  It  is  true,  however,  that  a  dash  of 
the  world's  people  made  their  way  among  us. 

I  remember  certain  appearances  of  Ralph 
Waldo  Emerson.  If  I  am  correct  about  it,  he 
had  been  persuaded  by  some  emancipated  and 
daring  mind  to  give  us  several  lectures. 

He  was  my  father's  guest  on  one  of  these 
occasions,  and  I  met  him  for  the  first  time  then. 
Emerson  seemed  to  me  —  not  to  speak  disre 
spectfully  —  in  a  much  muddled  state  of  his  dis 
tinguished  mind,  on  Andover  Hill.  His  blazing 
seer's  gaze  took  us  all  in,  politely ;  it  burned 
straight  on,  with  its  own  philosophic  fire ;  but 
it  wore,  at  moments,  a  puzzled  softness. 

His  clear-cut,  sarcastic  lips  sought  to  assume 

4.4 


AT   SCHOOL 

the  well-bred  curves  of  conformity  to  the  en 
vironment  of  entertainers  who  valued  him  so 
far  as  to  demand  a  series  of  his  own  lectures ; 
butsthe  cynic  of  his  temperamental  revolt  from 
us,  or,  to  be  exact,  from  the  thing  which  he 
supposed  us  to  be,  lurked  in  every  line  of  his 
memorable  face. 

By  the  way,  what  a  look  of  the  eagle  it  had ! 

The  poet  —  I  was  about  to  say  the  pagan 
poet  —  quickly  recognized,  to  a  degree,  that  he 
was  not  among  a  group  of  barbarians ;  and  I 
remember  the  marked  respect  with  which  he 
observed  my  father's  noble  head  and  counte 
nance,  and  the  attention  with  which  he  listened 
to  the  low,  perfectly  modulated  voice  of  his 
host.  But  Mr.  Emerson  was  accustomed  to  do 
the  talking  himself;  this  occasion  proved  no 
exception.  Quite  promptly,  I  remember,  he 
set  adrift  upon  the  sea  of  Alcott. 

Now,  we  had  heard  of  Mr.  Alcott  in  An- 
dover,  it  is  true,  but  we  did  not  look  upon  him 
exactly  through  Mr.  Emerson's  marine  -  glass  ; 
and,  though  the  professor  did  his  hospitable 
best  to  sustain  his  end  of  the  conversation,  it 
swayed  off  gracefully  into  monologue.  We  lis 
tened  deferentially  while  the  philosopher  pro 
nounced  Bronson  Alcott  the  greatest  mind  of 
our  day  —  I  think  he  said  the  greatest  since 
Plato.  He  was  capable  of  it,  in  moments  of 
45 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

his  own  exaltation.  I  thought  I  detected  a 
twinkle  in  my  father's  blue  eye ;  but  the  fine 
curve  of  his  lips  remained  politely  closed ;  and 
our  distinguished  guest  spoke  on. 

There  was  something  noble  about  this  ardent 
way  of  appreciating  his  friends,  and  Emerson 
was  distinguished  for  it,  among  those  who  knew 
him  well. 

Publishers  understood  that  his  literary  judg 
ment  was  touchingly  warped  by  his  personal 
admirations.  He  would  offer  some  impossible 
manuscript  as  the  work  of  dawning  genius ;  it 

*••    •  ••  "'       "" 

would  be  politely  received,  and  filed  in  the 
rejected  pigeon-holes.  Who  knows  what  the 
great  man  thought  when  his  friend's  poem 
failed  to  see  the  light  of  the  market  ? 

On  this  particular  occasion  the  conversation 
changed  to  Browning.  Now,  the  professor  was 
not  a  member  of  a  Browning  class ;  and  here, 
again,  his  attitude  towards  the  subject  was  one 
of  well-mannered  respect  rather  than  of  aban 
doned  enthusiasm.  (Had  it  only  been  Words 
worth  ! )  A  lady  was  present,  young,  and  of 
the  Browningesque  temperament.  Mr.  Emer 
son  expressed  himself  finely  to  the  effect  that 
there  was  something  outside  of  ourselves  about 
Browning  —  that  we  might  not  always  grasp 
him  —  that  he  seemed,  at  times,  to  require  an 
extra  sense. 

46 


AT   SCHOOL 

"Is  it  not  because  he  touches  our  extra 
moods  ? "  asked  the  lady.  The  poet's  face 
turned  towards  her  quickly ;  he  had  not  noticed 
her  before ;  a  subtle  change  touched  his  expres 
sion,  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to  say :  For  the 
first  time  since  this  subject  was  introduced  in 
this  Calvinistic  drawing-room,  I  find  myself  un 
derstood. 

It  chanced  that  we  had  a  Chaucer  Club  in 
Andover  at  that  time ;  a  small  company,  se 
verely  selected,  not  to  flirt  or  to  chat,  but  to 
work.  We  had  studied  hard  for  a  year,  and 
most  of  us  had  gone  Chaucer  mad.  This  pres 
ent  writer  was  the  unfortunate  exception  to 
that  idolatrous  enthusiasm,  and  —  meeting  Mr. 
Emerson  at  another  time  —  took  modest  occa 
sion  in  answer  to  a  remark  of  his  to  say  some 
thing  of  the  sort. 

"  Chaucer  interests  me,  certainly,  but  I  can 
not  make  myself  feel  as  the  others  do.     He  \ 
does  not  take  hold  of  my  nature.     He  is  too 
far  back.     I  am  afraid  I  am  too  much  of  a  mod 
ern.     It  is  a  pity,  I  know." 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  observed  Mr.  Emerson. 
"  What  would  you  read  ?  The  '  Morning  Ad 
vertiser  '  ?  "  The  Chaucer  Club  glared  at  me  in 
what,  I  must  say,  I  felt  to  be  unholy  triumph. 

Not  a  glance  of  sympathy  reached  me,  where 
I  sat,  demolished  before  the  rebuke  of  the  great 
47 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

man.  I  distinctly  heard  a  chuckle  from  a  femi 
nine  member.  Yet,  what  had  the  dissenter 
done,  or  tried  to  do  ?  Only  to  proffer  com 
mon  honesty  in  a  little  matter  where  affectation 
would  have  been  the  flowery  way ;  and  I  must 
say  that  I  have  never  loved  the  Father  of  Eng 
lish  Poetry  any  better  for  this  episode. 

The  point,  however,  at  which  I  am  coming  is 
the  effect  wrought  upon  Mr.  Emerson's  mind 
by  the  history  of  that  club.  It  seemed  to  us 
disproportionate  to  the  occasion  that  he  should 
feel  and  manifest  so  much  surprise  at  our  exist 
ence.  This  he  did,  more  than  once,  and  with  a 
genuineness  not  to  be  mistaken. 

That  an  organization  for  the  study  of  Chau 
cer  could  subsist  on  Andover  Hill,  he  could  not 
understand.  What  he  thought  us,  or  thought 
about  us,  who  can  say  ?  He  seemed  as  much 
taken  aback  as  if  he  had  found  a  tribe  of  Chero- 
kees  studying  onomatopoeia  in  English  verse. 

"A    Chaucer  club!     In  Andover?"   he  re- 
^ 

peated.     The  seer  was  perplexed. 

So  far  had  I  written,  out  of  that  inner  con 
sciousness,  which  may  be  right  or  may  be  wrong, 
when  it  occurred  to  me  to  test  my  little  profile 
sketch  of  this  great  man  by  the  exact  method  ; 
and  I  went  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  my 
life  to  Concord. 

On  a  grim  February  day  I  drove  through  the 
48 


AT   SCHOOL 

icy  and  sloppy  streets  of  a  village  on  the  north 
ern  railroad  where  winter  holds  on  so  much 
harder  than  it  does  in  our  Garden  City  of  the 
southern  side,  and  was  graciously  admitted  to 
the  philosopher's  study.  I  feel  compelled  to 
say  that  the  simplicity  and  serenity  of  that 
silent  room  touched  and  instructed  me.  The 
absence  of  lusruries,  the  severity  of  comforts, 
the  plain,  scholarly  atmosphere  of  the  spot  in 
which  this  great  man  asked  for  so  little  and 
achieved  so  much,  impressed  me  strongly.  Our 
Andover  life  seemed  complex  beside  that  Con 
cord  study.  I  reread  my  interpretation  of  Mr. 
Emerson  with  a  definite  doubt  whether  I  ought 
not  to  rewrite  it ;  —  it  seemed  to  me  so  sure 
that  he  who  lived  and  wrought  in  that  north 
east  front  room  in  that  white  house  among  the 
Concord  pines  must  have  been  the  simplest 
and  gentlest  of  men,  and  might  have  given  to 
Andover  Hill  something  besides  that  kind  of 
attention  which,  it  seemed  to  me,  was  concen 
trated  like  a  burning-glass  upon  us. 

Of  course,  whenever  we  found  ourselves  in 
forms  of  society  not  in  harmony  with  our  reli 
gious  views,  we  were  accustomed,  in  various 
ways,  to  meet  with  a  predisposition  similar  to 
that  which  I  thought  I  detected  in  Mr.  Emer 
son.  As  a  psychological  study  this  has  always 
interested  me,  just  as  one  is  interested  in  the 
49 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

attitude  of  mind  exhibited  by  the  Old  School 
physician  towards  the  Homceopathist  with  whom 
he  graduated  at  the  Harvard  Medical  School. 
Possibly  that  graduate  may  have  distinguished 
himself  with  the  honors  of  the  school;  but 
as  soon  as  he  prescribes  on  the  principles  of 
Hahnemann,  he  is  not  to  be  adjudged  capable 
of  setting  a  collar-bone.  By  virtue  of  his  thera 
peutic  views  he  has  become  disqualified  for  pro 
fessional  recognition.  So,  by  virtue  of  one's 
religious  views,  the  man  or  woman  of  orthodox 
convictions,  whatever  one's  proportion  of  per 
sonal  culture,  is  regarded  with  a  gentle  superi 
ority,  as  being  of  a  class  still  enslaved  in  super 
stition,  and  therefore  per  se  barbaric. 

Put  in  undecorated  language,  this  is  about 
the  sum  and  substance  of  a  state  of  feeling 
which  all  intelligent  evangelical  Christians  rec 
ognize  perfectly  in  those  who  have  preempted 
for  themselves  the  claims  belonging  to  what  are 
called  the  liberal  faiths. 

On  the  other  hand,  one  who  is  regarded  as  a 
little  of  a  heretic  from  the  sterner  sects,  may 
make  the  warmest  friendships  of  a  lifetime 
among  "the  world's  people" — whom  far  be  it 
from  me  to  seem  to  dispossess  of  any  of  their 
manifold  charms. 

This  brings  me  closely  to  a  question  which  I 
am  so  often  asked,  either  directly  or  indirectly, 
So 


AT   SCHOOL 

that  I  cannot  easily  pass  this  Andover  chapter 
by  without  some  recognition  of  it. 

What  was,  in  very  truth,  the  effect  of  such  a 
religious  training  as  Andover  gave  her  children  ? 

Curious  impressions  used  to  be  afloat  about 
us  among  people  of  easier  faiths  ;  often,  I  think, 
we  were  supposed  to  spend  our  youth  paddling 
about  in  a  lake  of  blue  fire,  or  in  committing 
the  genealogies  to  memory,  or  in  gasping  be 
neath  the  agonies  of  religious  revivals. 

To  be  quite  honest,  I  should  say  that  I  have 
not  retained  all  the  beliefs  which  I  was  taught 
—  who  does  ?  But  I  have  retained  the  pro- 
foundest  respect  for  the  way  in  which  I  was 
taught  them  ;  and  I  would  rather  have  been 
taught  what  I  was,  as  I  was,  and  run  whatever 
risks  were  involved  in  the  process,  than  to  have 
been  taught  much  less,  little,  or  nothing.  An 
excess  of  religious  education  may  have  its  un 
fortunate  aspects.  But  a  deficiency  of  it  has 
worse. 

It  is  true  that,  for  little  people,  our  little  souls 
were  a  good  deal  agitated  on  the  question  of 
eternal  salvation.  We  were  taught  that  heaven 
and  hell  followed  life  and  death ;  that  the  one 
place  was  "a  desirable  location,"  and  the  other  x 
too  dreadful  to  be  mentioned  in  ears  polite ; 
and  that  what  Matthew  Arnold  calls  "  conduct  " 
was  the  deciding  thing.  Not  that  we  heard 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

much,  until  we  grew  old  enough  to  read  for 
ourselves,  about  Matthew  Arnold  ;  but  we  did 
hear  a  great  deal  about  plain  behavior  —  un 
selfishness,  integrity,  honor,  sweet  temper  — 
the  simple  good  morals  of  childhood. 

We  were  taught,  too,  to  respect  prayer  and 
the  Christian  Bible.  In  this  last  particular  we 
never  had  at  all  an  oppressive  education. 

My  Sunday-school  reminiscences  are  few  and 
comfortable,  and  left  me,  chiefly,  with  the  im 
pression  that  Sunday-schools  always  studied 
Acts  ;  for  I  do  not  recall  any  lessons  given  me 
by  strolling  theologues  in  any  other  —  certainly 
none  in  any  severer  —  portions  of  the  Bible. 

It  was  all  very  easy  and  pleasant,  if  not 
feverishly  stimulating ;  and  I  am  quite  willing 
to  match  my  Andover  Sunday-school  experi 
ences  with  that  of  a  Boston  free-thinker's  little 
daughter  who  came  home  and  complained  to 
her  mother  :  "  There  is  a  dreadful  girl  put  into 
our  Sunday-school.  I  think,  mamma,  she  is  bad 
society  for  me.  She  says  the  Bible  is  exagger 
ated,  and  then  she  tickles  my  legs  !  " 

I  have  said  that  we  were  taught  to  think 
something  about  our  own  "  salvation  ;  "  and  so 
we  were,  but  not  in  a  manner  calculated  to  bur 
den  the  good  spirits  of  any  but  a  very  sensitive 
or  introspective  child.  Personally,  I  may  have 
dwelt  on  the  idea,  at  times,  more  than  was  good 
52 


AT   SCHOOL 

for  my  happiness ;  but  certainly  no  more  than 
was  good  for  my  character.  The  idea  of  char 
acter  was  at  the  basis  of  everything  we  did,  or 
dreamed,  or  learned. 

There  is  a  scarecrow  which  "  liberal  "  beliefs 
put  together,  hang  in  the  field  of  public  terror 
or  ridicule,  and  call  it  Orthodoxy.  Of  this  mis 
shapen  creature  we  knew  nothing  in  Andover. 

Of  hell  we  heard  sometimes,  it  is  true,  for 
Andover  Seminary  believed  in  it  —  though,  be 
it  said,  much  more  comfortably  in  the  days 
before  this  iron  doctrine  became  the  bridge 
of  contention  in  the  recent  serious,  theological 
battle  which  has  devastated  Andover.  In  my 
own  case,  I  do  not  remember  to  have  been 
shocked  or  threatened  by  this  woful  doctrine. 
I  knew  that  my  father  believed  in  the  everlast 
ing  misery  of  wicked  people  who  could  be  good 
if  they  wanted  to,  but  would  not ;  and  I  was, 
of  course,  accustomed  to  accept  the  beliefs  of 
a  parent  who  represented  everything  that  was 
tender,  unselfish,  pure,  and  noble,  to  my  mind 
—  in  fact,  who  sustained  to  me  the  ideal  of  a 
fatherhood  which  gave  me  the  best  conception 
I  shall  ever  get,  in  this  world,  of  the  Father 
hood  of  God.  My  father  presented  the  inter 
esting  anomaly  of  a  man  holding,  in  one  dark 
particular,  a  severe  faith,  but  displaying  in  his 
private  character  rare  tenderness  and  sweetness 
S3 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

of  heart.  He  would  go  out  of  his  way  to  save 
a  crawling  thing  from  death,  or  any  sentient 
thing  from  pain.  He  took  more  trouble  to  give 
comfort  or  to  prevent  distress  to  every  breath 
ing  creature  that  came  within  his  reach,  than 
any  other  person  whom  I  have  ever  known. 
He  had  not  the  heart  to  witness  heart-ache. 
It  was  impossible  for  him  to  endure  the  sight  of 
a  child's  suffering.  His  sympathy  was  an  extra 
sense,  finer  than  eyesight,  more  exquisite  than 
touch.  Yet  he  did  believe  that  absolute  per 
version  of  moral  character  went  to  its  "  own 
place,"  and  bore  the  consequence  of  its  own 
choice. 

Once  I  told  a  lie  (I  was  seven  years  old),  and 
my  father  was  a  broken-hearted  man.  He  told 
me  then  that  liars  went  to  hell.  I  do  not  re 
member  to  have  heard  any  such  personal  appli 
cation  of  the  doctrine  of  eternal  punishment 
before  or  since  ;  and  the  fact  made  a  life-long 
impression,  to  which  I  largely  owe  a  personal 
preference  for  veracity.  Yet,  to  analyze  the 
scene  strictly,  I  must  say  that  it  was  not  fear 
of  torment  which  so  moved  me ;  it  was  the 
sight  of  that  broken  face.  For  my  father  wept 
—  only  when  death  visited  the  household  did  I 
ever  see  him  cry  again  —  and  I  stood  melted 
and  miserable  before  his  anguish  and  his  love. 
The  devil  and  all  his  angels  could  not  have 
54 


PROFESSOR   AUSTIN    PHELPS 


AT    SCHOOL 

punished  into  me  the  noble  shame  of  that  mo 
ment. 

I  have  often  been  aware  of  being  pitied  by 
outsiders  for  the  theological  discipline  which  I 
was  supposed  to  have  received  in  Andover  ; 
but  I  must  truthfully  say  that  I  have  never 
been  conscious  of  needing  compassion  in  this 
respect.  I  was  taught  that  God  is  Love,  and 
Christ  His  Son  is  our  Saviour ;  that  the  impor 
tant  thing  in  life  was  to  be  that  kind  of  woman 
for  which  there  is  really,  I  find,  no  better  word 
than  Christian,  and  that  the  only  road  to  this 
end  was  to  be  trodden  by  way  of  character. 
The  ancient  Persians  (as. we  all  know)  were 
taught  to  hurl  a  javelin,  ride  a  horse,  and  speak 
the  truth. 

I  was  taught  that  I  should  speak  the  truth, 
say  my  prayers,  and  consider  other  people ;  it 
was  a  wholesome,  right-minded,  invigorating 
training  that  we  had,  born  of  tenderness,  edu 
cated  conscience,  and  good  sense,  and  I  have 
lived  to  bless  it  in  many  troubled  years. 

What  if  we  did  lend  a  little  too  much  ro 
mance  now  and  then  to  our  religious  "  experi 
ence  "  ?  It  was  better  for  us  than  some  other 
kinds  of  romance  to  which  we  were  quite  as 
liable.  What  if  I  did  "join  the  church"  (en 
tirely  of  my  own  urgent  will,  not  of  my  father's 
preference  or  guiding)  at  the  age  of  twelve, 
55 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 

when  the  great  dogmas  to  which  I  was  ex 
pected  to  subscribe  could  not  possibly  have  any 
rational  meaning  for  me  ?  I  remember  how 
my  father  took  me  apart,  and  gently  explained 
to  me  beforehand  the  clauses  of  the  rather 
simple  and  truly  beautiful  chapel  creed  which 
he  himself,  I  believe,  had  written  to  modernize 
and  clarify  the  old  one  —  I  wonder  if  it  were 
done  at  that  very  time  ?  And  I  remember 
that  it  all  seemed  to  me  very  easy  and  happy  — 
signifying  chiefly,  that  one  meant  to  be  a  good 
girl,  if  possible.  What  if  one  did  conduct  a 
voluminous  religious  correspondence  with  the 
other  professor's  daughter,  who  put  notes  under 
the  fence  which  divided  our  homes  ?  We  were 
none  the  worse  girls  for  that.  And  we  outgrew 
it,  when  the  time  came. 

One  thing,  supremely,  I  may  say  that  I 
learned  from  the  Andover  life,  or,  at  least, 
from  the  Andover  home.  That  was  an  ever 
lasting  scorn  of  worldliness  —  I  do  not  mean  in 
the  religious  sense  of  the  word.  That  tendency 
to  seek  the  lower  motive,  to  do  the  secondary 
thing,  to  confuse  sounds  or  appearances  with 
values,  which  is  covered  by  the  word  as  we 
commonly  use  it,  very  early  came  to  seem  to 
me  a  way  of  looking  at  life  for  which  I  know 
no  other  term  than  underbred. 

There  is  no  better  training  for  a  young  per- 
56 


AT   SCHOOL 

son  than  to  live  in  the  atmosphere  of  a  study  — 
we  did  not  call  it  a  library,  in  my  father's  home. 
People  of  leisure  who  read  might  have  libra 
ries.  People  who  worked  among  their  books 
had  studies. 

The  life  of  a  student,  with  its  gracious  peace, 
its  beauty,  its  dignity,  seemed  to  me,  as  the 
life  of  social  preoccupation  or  success  may  seem 
to  children  born  to  that  penumbra,  the  inevit 
able  thing. 

As  one  grew  to  think  out  life  for  one's  self, 
one  came  to  perceive  a  width  and  sanctity  in 
the  choice  of  work  —  whether  rhetoric  or  art, 
theology  or  sculpture,  hydraulics  or  manufac 
ture  —  but  to  work,  to  work  hard,  to  see  work 
steadily,  and  see  it  whole,  was  the  way  to  be 
reputable.  I  think  I  always  respected  a  good 
blacksmith  more  than  a  lady  of  leisure. 

I  know  it  took  me  a  while  to  recover  from  a 
very  youthful  and  amusing  disinclination  to  rich 
people,  which  was  surely  never  trained  into  me, 
but  grew  like  the  fruit  of  the  horse-chestnut 
trees,  ruggedly,  of  nature,  and  of  Andover  Hill ; 
and  which  dropped  away  when  its  time  came  — 
just  about  as  useless  as  the  big,  brown  nuts 
which  we  cut  into  baskets  and  carved  into 
trustees'  faces  for  a  mild  November  day,  and 
then  threw  away. 

When  I  came  in  due  time  to  observe  that 
57 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

property  and  a  hardened  character  were  not 
identical,  and  that  families  of  ease  in  which  one 
might  happen  to  visit  were  not  deficient  in  edu 
cation  because  their  incomes  were  large  —  I 
think  it  was  at  first  with  a  certain  sense  of  sur 
prise.  It  is  impossible  to  convey  to  one  differ 
ently  reared  the  delicious  naTvete  of  this  state 
of  mind. 

Whatever  the  "personal  peculiarities  "  of  our 
youthful  conceptions  of  life,  as  acquired  at  An- 
dover,  one  thing  is  sure  —  that  we  grew  into 
love  of  reality  as  naturally  as  the  Seminary 
elms  shook  out  their  long,  green  plumes  in 
May,  and  shed  their  delicate,  yellow  leaves  in 
October. 

I  can  remember  no  time  when  we  did  not  in 
stinctively  despise  a  sham,  and  honor  a  genuine 
person,  thing,  or  claim.  In  mere  social  preten 
sion  not  built  upon  character,  intelligence,  edu 
cation,  or  gentle  birth,  we  felt  no  interest.  I 
do  not  remember  having  been  taught  this,  in 
so  many  words.  It  came  without  teaching. 

My  father  taught  me  most  things  without 
text -books  or  lessons.  By  far  the  most  impor 
tant  portion  of  what  one  calls  education  I  owe 
to  him ;  yet  he  never  preached,  or  prosed,  or 
played  the  pedagogue.  He  talked  a  great  deal, 
not  to  us,  but  with  us ;  we  began  to  have  con 
versation  while  we  were  still  playing  marbles 
58 


AT   SCHOOL 

and  dolls.  I  remember  hours  of  discussion 
with  him  on  some  subject  so  large  that  the  lit 
tleness  of  his  interlocutor  must  have  tried  him 
sorely.  Time  and  eternity,  theology  and  sci 
ence,  literature  and  art,  invention  and  discovery, 
came  each  in  its  turn ;  and,  while  I  was  still 
making  burr  baskets,  or  walking  fences,  or 
coasting  (standing  up)  on  what  I  was  proud  to 
claim  as  the  biggest  sled  in  town,  down  the 
longest  hills,  and  on  the  fastest  local  record  — 
I  was  fascinated  with  the  wealth  and  variety 
which  seem  to  have  been  the  conditions  of 
thought  with  him.  I  have  never  been  more 
interested  by  anything  in  later  life  than  I  was 
in  my  father's  conversation. 

I  never  attended  a  public  school  of  any  kind 
—  unless  we  except  the  Sunday-school  that 
studied  Acts  —  and  when  it  came  time  for  me 
to  pass  from  the  small  to  the  large  private 
schools  of  Andover,  the  same  paternal  com 
radeship  continued  to  keep  step  with  me. 
There  was  no  college  diploma  for  girls  of  my 
kind  in  my  day ;  but  we  came  as  near  to  it  as 
we  could. 

There  was  a  private  school  in  Andover,  of 
wide  reputation  in  its  time,  known  to  the  irrev 
erent  as  the  "  Nunnery,"  but  bearing  in  profes 
sional  circles  the  more  stately  name  of  Mrs. 
Ed  wards' s  School  for  Young  Ladies.  Two 
59 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

day-scholars,  as  a  marked  favor  to  their  parents, 
were  admitted  with  the  boarders  elect ;  and  of 
these  two  I  was  one.  If  I  remember  correctly, 
Professor  Park  and  my  father  were  among  the 
advisers  whose  opinions  had  weight  with  the 
selection  of  our  course  of  study,  and  I  often 
wonder  how,  with  their  rather  feudal  views  of 
women,  these  two  wise  men  of  Andover  man 
aged  to  approve  so  broad  a  curriculum. 

Possibly  the  quiet  and  modest  learned  lady, 
our  principal,  had  ideas  of  her  own  which  no 
one  could  have  suspected  her  of  obtruding 
against  the  current  of  her  times  and  environ 
ment  ;  like  other  strong  and  gentle  women  she 
may  have  had  her  "way  "  when  nobody  thought 
so.  At  all  events,  we  were  taught  wisely  and 
well,  in  directions  to  which  the  fashionable  girls' 
schools  of  the  day  did  not  lift  an  eye-lash. 

I  was  an  out-of-door  girl,  always  into  every 
little  mischief  of  snow  or  rainfall,  flower,  field, 
or  woods  or  ice ;  but  in  spite  of  skates  and  sleds 
and  tramps  and  all  the  west  winds  from  Wa- 
chusett  that  blew  through  me,  soul  and  body,  I 
was  not  strong  ;  and  my  father  found  it  neces 
sary  to  oversee  my  methods  of  studying.  Inci 
dentally,  I  think,  he  influenced  the  choice  of 
some  of  our  text-books,  and  I  remember  that, 
with  the  exception  of  Greek  and  trigonometry 
—  thought,  in  those  days,  to  be  beyond  the 
60 


AT   SCHOOL 

scope  of  the  feminine  intellect  —  we  pursued 
the  same  curriculum  that  our  brothers  did  at 
college.  In  some  cases  we  had  teachers  who 
were  then,  or  afterwards,  college  professors  in 
their  specialties ;  in  all  departments  I  think  we 
were  faithfully  taught,  and  that  our  tastes  and 
abilities  were  electively  recognized. 

I  was  not  allowed,  I  remember,  to  inflict  my 
self  upon  the  piano  for  more  than  one  hour  a 
day ;  my  father  taking  the  ground  that,  as 
there  was  only  so  much  of  a  girl,  if  she  had  not 
unusual  musical  gift  and  had  less  than  usual 
physical  vigor,  she  had  better  give  the  best  of 
herself  to  her  studies.  I  have  often  blessed 
him  for  this  daring  individualism ;  for,  while 
the  school  "practice"  went  on  about  me,  in 
the  ordinary  way,  so  many  precious  hours  out 
of  a  day  that  was  all  too  short  for  better 
things  —  I  was  learning  my  lessons  quite  com 
fortably,  and  getting  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  ex 
ercise  between  whiles. 

I  hasten  to  say  that  I  was  not  at  all  a  re 
markable  scholar.  I  cherished  a  taste  for 
standing  near  the  top  of  the  class,  somewhere, 
and  always  preferred  rather  to  answer  a  ques 
tion  than  to  miss  it ;  but  this,  I  think,  was  pure 
pride,  rather  than  an  absorbing,  intellectual 
passion.  It  was  a  wholesome  pride,  however, 
and  served  me  a  good  turn. 
61 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

At  one  epoch  of  history,  so  far  back  that 
I  cannot  date  it,  I  remember  to  have  been 
a  scholar  at  Abbot  Academy  long  enough  to 
learn  how  to  spell.  Perhaps  one  ought  to  give 
the  honor  of  this  achievement  where  honor  is 
due.  When  I  observe  the  manner  in  which  the 
superior  sex  is  often  turned  out  by  masculine 
diplomas  upon  the  world  with  the  life-long  need 
of  a  vest-pocket  dictionary  or  a  spelling-book,  I 
cherish  a  respect  for  the  method  in  which  I  was 
compelled  to  spell  the  English  language.  It 
was  severe,  no  doubt.  We  stood  in  a  class  of 
forty,  and  lost  our  places  for  the  misfit  of  a  syl 
lable,  a  letter,  a  definition,  or  even  a  stumble 
in  elocution.  I  remember  once  losing  the  head 
of  the  class  for  saying  :  L-u-ux  —  Lux.  It  was 
a  terrible  blow,  and  I  think  of  it  yet  with  burn 
ing  mortification  on  my  cheeks. 

In  the  "Nunnery"  we  were  supposed  to 
have  learned  how  to  spell.  We  studied  what 
we  called  Mental  Philosophy,  to  my  unquali 
fied  delight ;  and  Butler's  Analogy,  which  I 
considered  a  luxury  ;  and  Shakespeare,  whom  I 
distantly  but  never  intimately  adored ;  Latin, 
to  which  dead  language  we  gave  seven  years 
apiece  out  of  our  live  girlhood  ;  "  Picciola  "  and 
"Undine,"  Racine,  and  Schiller,  we  dreamed 
over  in  the  grove  and  the  orchard  ;  English  lit 
erature  is  associated  with  the  summer-house 
62 


AT   SCHOOL 

and  the  grape  arbor,  with  flecks  of  shade  and 
glints  of  light,  and  a  sense  of  unmistakable 
privilege.  There  was  physiology,  which  was 
scarcely  work,  and  astronomy,  which  I  found 
so  exhilarating  that  I  fell  ill  over  it.  Alas ! 
truth  compels  me  to  add  that  Mathematics, 
with  a  big  M  and  stretching  on  through  the 
books  of  Euclid,  darkened  my  young  horizon 
with  dull  despair ;  and  that  chemistry  —  but  the 
facts  are  too  humiliating  to  relate.  My  father 
used  to  say  that  all  he  ever  got  out  of  the  pur 
suit  of  this  useful  science  in  his  college  days  — 
and  he  was  facile  valedictorian  —  was  the  im 
pression  that  there  was  a  sub-acetate  of  some 
thing  dissolved  in  a  powder  at  the  bottom. 

All  that  I  am  able  to  recall  of  the  study  of 
"my  brother's  text-books,"  in  this  department, 
is  that  there  was  once  a  frightful  odor  in  the 
laboratory,  for  which  Professor  Hitchcock  and  a 
glass  jar  and  a  chemical  were  responsible,  and 
that  I  said,  "  At  least,  the  name  of  this  will  re 
main  with  me  to  my  dying  hour."  But  what 
was  the  name  of  it  ?  "Ask  me  no  more." 

In  the  department  of  history  I  can  claim  no 
results  more  calculated  to  reflect  credit  upon 
the  little  student  who  hated  a  poor  recitation 
much,  but  facts  and  figures  more.  To  the  best 
of  my  belief,  I  can  be  said  to  have  retained  but 
two  out  of  the  long  list  of  historic  dates  with 
63 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

which  my  quivering-memory  was  duly  and  prop 
erly  crowded. 

I  do  know  when  America  was  discovered, 
because  the  year  is  inscribed  over  a  spring  in 
the  seaside  town  where  I  have  spent  twenty 
summers,  and  I  have  driven  past  it  on  an  aver 
age  once  a  day  for  that  period  of  time.  And 
I  can  tell  when  Queen  Elizabeth  left  this  world, 
because  Macaulay  wrote  a  stately  sentence  :  — 

"  In  1603  the  Great  Queen  died." 

It  must  have  been  the  year  when  my  father 
read  De  Quincey  and  Wordsworth  to  me  on 
winter  evenings  that  I  happened  for  myself  on 
Elizabeth  Barrett  Browning.  The  first  little 
event  opened  for  me,  as  distinctly  as  if  I  had 
never  heard  of  it  before,  the  world  of  letters  as 
a  Paradise  from  which  no  flaming  sword  could 
ever  exile  me ;  but  the  second  revealed  to  me 
my  own  nature. 

The  Andover  sunsets  blazed  behind  Wachu- 
sett,  and  between  the  one  window  of  my  little 
room  and  the  fine  head  of  the  mountain  nothing 
intervened.  The  Andover  elms  held  above 
lifted  eyes  arch  upon  arch  of  exquisite  tracery, 
through  which  the  far  sky  looked  down  like 
some  noble  thing  that  one  could  spend  all  one's 
life  in  trying  to  reach,  and  be  happy  just  be 
cause  it  existed,  whether  one  reached  it  or  not. 
64 


AT  SCHOOL 

The  paths  in  my  father's  great  gardens  burned 
white  in  the  summer  moonlights,  and  their 
shape  was  the  shape  of  a  mighty  cross.  The 
June  lilies,  yellow  and  sweet,  lighted  their  soft 
lamps  beside  the  cross  —  I  was  sixteen,  and  I 
read  "Aurora  Leigh." 

A  grown  person  may  smile  —  but,  no  ;  no 
gentle-minded  man  or  woman  smiles  at  the 
dream  of  a  girl.  What  has  life  to  offer  that  is 
nobler  in  enthusiasm,  more  delicate,  more  ar 
dent,  more  true  to  the  unseen  and  the  unsaid 
realities  which  govern  our  souls,  or  leave  us 
sadder  forever  because  they  do  not  ?  There 
may  be  greater  poems  in  our  language  than 
"Aurora  Leigh,"  but  it  was  many  years  before 
it  was  possible  for  me  to  suppose  it ;  and  none 
that  ever  saw  the  hospitality  of  fame  could 
have  done  for  that  girl  what  that  poem  did  at 
that  time.  I  had  never  a  good  memory  —  but 
I  think  I  could  have  repeated  a  large  portion 
of  it ;  and  know  that  I  often  stood  the  test  of 
haphazard  examinations  on  the  poem  from 
half-scoffing  friends,  sometimes  of  the  mascu 
line  persuasion.  Each  to  his  own ;  and  what 
Shakespeare  or  the  Latin  Fathers  might  have 
done  for  some  other  impressionable  girl,  Mrs. 
Browning  — forever  bless  her  strong  and  gentle 
name  !  —  did  for  me. 

I  owe  to  her,  distinctly,  the  first  visible  aspi- 
6$ 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 

ration  (ambition  is  too  low  a  word)  to  do  some 
honest,  hard  work  of  my  own  in  the  World 
Beautiful,  and  for  it. 

It  is  April,  and  it  is  the  year  1861.  It  is  a 
dull  morning  at  school.  The  sky  is  gray.  The 
girls  are  not  in  spirits  —  no  one  knows  just  why. 
The  morning  mail  is  late,  and  the  Boston  papers 
are  tardily  distributed.  The  older  girls  get 
them,  and  are  reading  the  head-lines  lazily,  as 
girls  do ;  not,  in  truth,  caring  much  about  a 
newspaper,  but  aware  that  one  must  be  well-in 
formed. 

Suddenly,  in  the  recitation  room,  where  I  am 
refreshing  my  accomplishments  in  some  threat 
ening  lesson,  I  hear  low  murmurs  and  exclama 
tions.  Then  a  girl,  very  young  and  very  pretty, 
catches  the  paper  and  whirls  it  overhead.  With 
a  laugh  which  tinkles  through  my  ears  to  this 
day,  she  dances  through  the  room  and  cries  :  — 

"  War 's  begun  !      War  's  begun  !  " 

An  older  girl  utters  a  cry  of  horror,  and  puts 
her  hand  upon  the  little  creature's  thoughtless 
lips. 

"Oh,  how  can  you?"  so   I  hear  the  older 
girl.     "  Hush,  hush,  hush  !  " 
66 


IV 

WAR-TIME  I   FIRST   STORIES 

ONE  study  in  our  curriculum  at  the  Andover 
school  I  have  omitted  to  mention  in  its  place ; 
but,  of  them  all,  it  was  the  most  characteristic, 
and  would  be  most  interesting  to  an  outsider. 
Where  else  but  in  Andover  would  a  group  of 
a  dozen  and  a  half  girls  be  put  to  studying 
theology  ?  Yet  this  is  precisely  what  we  did. 
Not  that  we  called  our  short  hour  with  Pro 
fessor  Park  on  Tuesday  evenings  by  that  long 
word  ;  nor  did  he.  It  was  understood  that  we 
had  Bible  lessons. 

But  the  gist  of  the  matter  was,  that  we  were 
taught  Professor  Park's  theology. 

We  had  our  note-books,  like  the  students  in 
the  chapel  lecture-rooms,  and  we  took  docile 
notes  of  the  great  man's  views  on  the  attri 
butes  of  the  Deity,  on  election  and  probation, 
on  atonement  and  sanctification,  on  eschatology, 
and  the  rest. 

Girls  with  pink  ribbons  at  white  throats,  and 
girls  with  blue  silk  nets  on  their  pretty  hair, 
fluttered  in  like  bees  and  butterflies,  and  settled 
67 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A    LIFE 

about  the  long  dining-room  table,  at  whose  end, 
with  a  shade  over  his  eyes  to  shield  them  from 
the  light,  the  professor  sat  in  a  dark  corner.  , 

Thence  he  promulgated  stately  doctrines  to 
those  soft  and  dreaming  woman-creatures,  who 
did  not  care  a  maple-leaf  whether  we  sinned  in 
Adam,  or  whether  the  Trinity  were  separate 
as  persons  or  as  attributes  ;  but  who  drew  little 
portraits  of  their  dearest  Academy  boys  on  the 
margins  of  their  lecture-books,  and  passed  these 
to  their  particular  intimates  in  surreptitious  in 
terludes  between  doctrines. 

What  must  have  been  the  professor's  private 
speculations  on  those  Tuesday  evenings  ?  I  had 
a  certain  sense  of  their  probable  nature,  even 
then  ;  and  glanced  furtively  into  the  dark  corner 
for  glimpses  of  the  distant,  sarcastic  smile  which 
I  felt  must  be  carving  itself  upon  the  lines  of 
his  strong  face.  But  I  never  caught,  him  at  it, 
not  once.  With  the  gravity  befitting  his  awful 
topics,  and  with  the  dignity  belonging  to  his 
chair  and  to  his  fame,  the  professor  taught  the 
butterflies,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and 
belief,  as  conscientiously  as  he  did  those  black- 
coated  beetles  yonder,  the  theologues  on  the 
Seminary  benches. 

I  ought  to  say  just  here,  that,  in  a  recent 
correspondence  with  Professor  Park  upon  this 
matter,  I  found  him  more  or  less  unconscious 
68 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

of  having  been  so  generous  with  his  theology 
to  the  girls.  I  am  giving  the  pupil's  impres 
sions,  not  the  teacher's  recollections,  of  that 
Bible-class  ;  and  I  can  give  no  other.  Of  course, 
I  may  be  mistaken,  and  am  liable  to  correc 
tion  ;  but  my  impressions  are,  that  he  gave  us 
his  system  of  theology  pretty  straight  and  very 
faithfully. 

I  cannot  deny  that  I  enjoyed  those  stern  les 
sons.  Not  that  I  had  any  marked  predilections 
towards  theology,  but  I  liked  the  psychology  of 
it.  I  experienced  my  first  appreciation  of  the 
nature  and  value  of  exact  thought  in  that  class 
room,  and  it  did  me  good,  and  not  evil  alto 
gether.  There  I  learned  to  reason  with  more 
patience  than  a  school-girl  may  always  care  to 
suffer ;  and  there  I  observed  that  the  mysteries 
of  time  and  eternity,  whatever  one  might  per 
sonally  conclude  about  them,  were  material  of 
reason. 

In  many  a  mental  upheaval  of  later  life,  the 
basis  of  that  theological  training  has  made  it 
self  felt  to  me,  as  one  feels  rocks  or  stumps 
or  solid  things  underfoot  in  the  sickly  sway 
ing  of  wet  sands.  I  may  not  always  believe 
all  I  was  taught,  but  what  I  was  taught  has 
helped  me  to  what  I  believe.  I  certainly  think 
of  those  theological  lectures  with  unqualified 
gratitude. 

69 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

The  Tuesday  evenings  grow  warm  and 
warmer.  The  butterflies  hover  about  in  white 
muslins,  and  pretty  little  bows  of  summer  colors 
glisten  on  bright  heads  as  they  bend  over  the 
doctrines,  around  the  long  table.  On  the 
screens  of  the  open  windows  the  June  beetles 
knock  their  heads,  like  theologues  who  wish 
they  could  get  in.  There  is  a  moon  without. 
Visions  of  possible  forbidden  ecstasies  of  strolls 
under  the  arches  of  the  Seminary  elms  With  the 
bravest  boy  in  the  Academy  melt  before  the 
gentle  minds,  through  which  depravity,  election, 
predestination,  and  justification  are  filing  sternly. 
The  professor's  voice  arises  :  — 

"A  sin  is  a  wrong  committed  against  God. 
God  is  an  Infinite  Being ;  therefore  sin  against 
Him  is  an  infinite  wrong.  An  infinite  wrong 
against  an  Infinite  Being  deserves  an  infinite 
punishment " — 

Now,  the  professor  says  that  he  has  no  recol 
lection  of  ever  having  said  this  in  the  Bible- 
class  ;  but  there  is  the  note-book  of  the  girl's 
brain,  stamped  with  the  sentence  for  these 
thirty  years ! 

"I  have  sometimes  quoted  it  at  the  Semi 
nary,"  he  writes,  "for  the  purpose  of  expos 
ing  the  impropriety  of  it.  I  do  not  think, 
any  professor  ever  quoted  the  statement,  with 
out  adding  that  it  is  untenable.  The  Ando- 
70 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

ver  argument  was"1-      He  adds  the  proper 

controversial  language,  which,  it  seems,  went 

\    solidly  out  of   my  head.     Tenable  or  untena- 

1  ble,  my  memory  has  clutched  the  stately  syllo- 

!  gism. 

Sharp  upon  the  doctrines  there  falls  across 
the  silence  and  the  sweetness  of  the  moonlit 
Hill  a  strange  and  sudden  sound.  It  is  louder 
than  theology.  It  is  more  solemn  than  the 
professor's  system.  Insistent,  urging  every 
thing  before  it,  —  the  toil  of  strenuous  study, 
the  fret  of  little  trouble,  and  the  dreams  of 
dawning  love,  —  the  call  stirs  on.  It  is  the 
beat  of  a  drum. 

The  boys  of  old  Phillips,  with  the  down  on 
their  faces,  and  that  eternal  fire  in  their  hearts 
which  has  burned  upon  the  youth  of  all  the 
ages  when  their  country  has  commanded  :  "  Die 
for  me  !  "  are  drilling  by  moonlight. 

The  Academy  Company  is  out  in  force,  pass 
ing  up  and  down  the  quiet,  studious  streets. 
The  marching  of  their  feet  beats  solemnly  at 
the  meeting  of  the  paths  where  (like  the  gar 
dens  of  the  professors)  the  long  walks  of  the 

1  "  A  sin  once  committed,  always  deserves  punishment ;  and,  as 
long  as  strict  Justice  is  administered,  the  sin  must  be  punished. 
Unless  there  be  an  Atonement,  strict  Justice  must  be  administered ; 
that  is,  Sin  must  be  punished  forever ;  but,  on  the  ground  of  the 
Atonement,  Grace  may  be  administered  instead  of  Justice,  and 
then  the  sinner  may  be  pardoned." 

71 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

Seminary  lawns  form  the  shape  of  a  mighty 
cross. 

"  An  infinite  wrong  deserves  an  infinite  pun 
ishment  "  —  The  theologian's  voice  falls 
solemnly.  The  girls  turn  their  grave  faces  to 
the  open  windows.  Silence  helps  the  drum 
beat,  which  lifts  its  cry  to  Heaven  unimpeded ; 
and  the  awful  questions  which  it  asks,  what 
system  of  theology  can  answer  ? 

Andover  was  no  more  loyal,  probably,  than 
other  New  England  villages ;  but  perhaps  the 
presence  of  so  many  young  men  helped  to 
make  her  seem  so  to  those  who  passed  the 
years  from  1861  to  1865  upon  the  Hill. 

Theology  and  church  history  and  exegesis 
and  sacred  rhetoric  retreated  from  the  fore 
ground  of  that  scholastic  drama.  The  great 
Presence  that  is  called  War  swept  up  and  filled 
the  scene. 

Gray-haired  men  went  to  their  lecture-rooms 
with  bowed  heads,  the  morning  papers  shaking 
in  their  hands.  The  accuracy  of  the  Hebrew 
verb  did  not  matter  so  much  as  it  did  last  term. 
The  homiletic  uses  or  abuses  of  an  applied  text, 
the  soundness  of  the  new-school  doctrine  of 
free  will,  seemed  less  important  to  the  universe 
than  they  were  before  the  Flag  went  down  on 
Sumter.  Young  eyes  looked  up  at  their  in- 
72 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

structors  mistily,  for  the  dawn  of  utter  sacri 
fice  was  in  them.  He  was  only  an  Academy 
boy  yesterday,  or  a  theologue ;  unknown,  un 
noticed,  saying  his  lesson  in  Xenophon,  taking 
his  notes  on  the  Nicene  Creed ;  blamed  a  little, 
possibly,  by  his  teacher  or  by  his  professor,  for 
inattention. 

To-day  he  comes  proudly  to  the  desk.  His 
step  rings  on  the  old,  bare  floors  that  he  will 
never  tread  again.  "  Sir,  my  father  gives  his 
permission.  I  enlist  at  once." 

To-day  he  is  a  hero,  and  the  hero's  light  is 
glorious  on  his  face.  To-day  he  is  the  teacher, 
and  the  professor  learns  lessons  in  his  turn 
now.  The  boy  whom  he  has  lectured  and 
scolded  towers  above  him  suddenly,  a  sacred 
thing  to  see.  The  old  man  stands  uncovered 
before  his  pupil  as  they  clasp  hands  and  part. 

The  drum  calls  on,  and  the  boys  drill  bravely 
—  no  boys'  parade  this,  but  awful  earnest  now. 
The  ladies  of  Andover  sew  red  braid  upon  blue 
flannel  shirts,  with  which  the  Academy  Com 
pany  make  simple  uniform. 

Then  comes  a  morning  when  the  professors 
cannot  read  the  papers  for  the  news  they  bring ; 
but  cover  streaming  eyes  with  trembling  hands, 
and  turn  their  faces.  For  the  black  day  of  the 
defeat  at  Bull  Run  has  darkened  the  summer 
sky. 

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CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

Andover  does  not  sew  for  the  missionaries 
now.  Her  poor  married  theologues  must  wait 
a  little  for  their  babies'  dresses.  Even  the  blue 
flannel  shirts  for  the  drill  are  forgotten.  The 
chapel  is  turned  into  sudden,  awful  uses,  of 
which  the  "pious  founders"  in  their  comfort 
able  graves  did  never  dream.  For  there  the 
women  of  the  Hill,  staying  for  no  prayer-meet 
ing,  and  delaying  to  sing  no  hymns,  pick  lint 
and  roll  bandages  and  pack  supplies  for  the 
field ;  and  there  they  sacrifice  and  suffer,  like 
women  who  knew  no  theology  at  all ;  and  since 
it  was  not  theirs  to  offer  life  to  the  teeth  of 
shot  and  shell,  they  "gave  their  happiness  in 
stead." 

The  first  thing  which  I  wrote,  marking  in 
any  sense  the  beginning  of  what  authors  are 
accustomed  to  call  their  "literary  career,"  —  I 
dislike  the  phrase  and  wish  we  had  a  better, — 
was  a  war  story. 

As  nearly  as  I  can  recall  the  facts,  up  to  this 
time  I  had  shown  no  literary  tendency  whatever, 
since  the  receipt  of  that  check  for  two  dollars 
and  a  half.  Possibly  the  munificence  of  that 
honorarium  seemed  to  me  to  satiate  mortal  am 
bition  for  years.  It  is  true  that,  during  my 
schooldays,  I  did  perpetrate  three  full-grown 
novels  in  manuscript.  My  dearest  particular 
74 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

intimate  and  I  shared  in  this  exploit,  and  read 
our  chapters  to  each  other  on  Saturday  after 
noons. 

I  remember  that  the  title  of  one  of  these 
"books  "was  "The  Shadow  of  a  Lifetime." 
It  was  a  double  title  with  a  heroine  to  it,  but 
I  forget  the  lady's  name,  or  even  the  nature 
of  her  particular  shadow.  The  only  thing  that 
can  be  said  about  these  three  volumes  is,  that 
their  youthful  author  had  the  saving  sense  not 
to  try  the  Christian  temper  of  a  publisher  with 
their  perusal. 

Yet,  in  truth,  I  have  never  regretted  the 
precious  portion  of  human  existence  spent  in 
their  creation  ;  for  I  must  have  written  off  in 
that  way  a  certain  amount  of  apprenticeship 
which  does,  in  some  cases,  find  its  way  into 
type,  and  devastate  the  endurance  of  a  patient 
public. 

The  war  story  of  which  I  speak  was  distinctly 
the  beginning  of  anything  like  genuine  work 
for  me.  Mr.  Alden  tells  me  that  it  was  pub 
lished  in  January,  1864;  but  I  think  it  must 
have  been  written  a  while  before  that,  though 
not  long,  for  its  appearance  quickly  followed 
the  receipt  of  the  manuscript.  The  name  of 
the  story  was  "A  Sacrifice  Consumed."  It 
was  a  very  little  story,  not  covering  more  than 
four  or  five  pages  in  print.  I  sent  it  to  "  Har- 
75 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

per's  Magazine,"  without  introduction  or  what 
young  writers  are  accustomed  to  call  "  influ 
ence  ;  "  it  was  sent  quite  privately,  without  the 
knowledge  of  any  friend.  It  was  immediately 
accepted,  and  a  prompt  check  for  twenty-five 
dollars  accompanied  the  acceptance.  Even  my 
father  knew  nothing  of  the  venture  until  I  car 
ried  the  letter  and  enclosure  to  him.  The  pleas 
ure  on  his  expressive  face  was  only  equaled  by 
its  frank  and  unqualified  astonishment.  He 
read  the  story  when  it  came  out,  and,  I  think, 
was  touched  by  it,  —  it  was  a  story  of  a  poor 
and  plain  little  dressmaker,  who  lost  her  lover  in 
the  army,  —  and  his  genuine  emotion  gave  me 
a  kind  of  awed  elation,  which  has  never  been 
repeated  in  my  experience.  Ten  hundred  thou 
sand  unknown  voices  could  not  move  me  to 
the  pride  and  pleasure  which  my  father's  first 
gentle  word  of  approval  gave  to  a  girl  who 
cared  much  to  be  loved  and  little  to  be  praised ; 
and  the  plaudits  of  a  "  career  "  were  the  last 
things  in  earth  or  heaven  then  occupying  her 
mind. 

Afterwards,  I  wrote  with  a  distinct  purpose, 
and,  I  think,  quite  steadily.  I  know  that  longer 
stories  went,  soon  and  often,  to  the  old  maga 
zine,  which  never  sent  them  back  ;  and  to  which 
I  am  glad  to  pay  the  tribute  of  a  gratitude  that 
I  have  never  outgrown.  There  was  nothing  of 
76 


WAR  TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

the  stuff  that  heroines  and  geniuses  are  made 
of  in  a  shy  and  self-distrustful  girl,  who  had  no 
faith  in  her  own  capabilities,  and,  indeed,  at 
that  time  the  smallest  possible  amount  of  in 
terest  in  the  subject. 

It  may  be  a  humiliating  fact,  but  it  is  the 
truth,  that  had  my  first  story  been  refused,  or 
even  the  second  or  the  third,  I  should  have 
written  no  more. 

For  the  opinion  of  important  editors,  and  for 
the  sacredness  of  market  value  in  literary  wares, 
as  well  as  in  professorships  or  cotton  cloth,  I 
had  a  kind  of  respect  at  which  I  sometimes 
wonder ;  for  I  do  not  recall  that  it  was  ever 
distinctly  taught  me.  But,  assuredly,  if  nobody 
had  cared  for  my  stories  enough  to  print  them, 
I  should  have  been  the  last  person  to  differ 
from  the  ruling  opinion,  and  should  have  bought 
at  Warren  Draper's  old  Andover  book-store  no 
more  cheap  printer's  paper  on  which  to  inscribe 
the  girlish  handwriting  (with  the  pointed  letters 
and  the  big  capitals)  which  my  father,  with 
patient  pains,  had  caused  to  be  taught  me  by  a 
queer  old  traveling  master  with  an  idea.  Pro 
fessor  Phelps,  by  the  way,  had  an  exquisite 
chirography,  which  none  of  his  children,  to  his 
evident  disappointment,  inherited. 

But  the  editor  of  "  Harper's  "  took  every 
thing  I  sent  him ;  so  the  pointed  letters  and 
77 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

the  large  capitals  continued  to  flow  towards  his 
desk. 

Long  after  I  had  achieved  whatever  success 
has  been  given  me,  this  magazine  returned  me 
one  of  my  stories  —  it  was  the  only  one  in  a 
lifetime.  I  think  the  editor  then  in  power 
called  it  too  tragic,  or  too  something  ;  it  came 
out  forthwith  in  the  columns  of  another  maga 
zine  that  did  not  agree  with  him,  and  was  after 
wards  issued,  I  think,  in  some  sort  of  "  classic  " 
series  of  little  books. 

I  was  a  little  sorry,  I  know,  at  the  time,  for  I 
had  the  most  superstitious  attachment  for  the 
magazine  that,  when  "I  was  a  stranger,  took 
me  in  ;  "  but  it  was  probably  necessary  to  break 
the  record  in  this,  as  in  all  other  forms  of 
human  happiness.  A  manuscript  by  any  chance 
returned  from  any  other  quarter  seemed  a  very 
inferior  affliction. 

Other  magazines  took  their  turn  —  the  "At 
lantic,"  I  remember — in  due  course;  but  I 
shared  the  general  awe  of  this  magazine  at  that 
time  prevailing  in  New  England,  and,  having, 
possibly,  more  than  my  share  of  personal  pride, 
did  not  very  early  venture  to  intrude  my  little 
risk  upon  that  fearful  lottery. 

The  first  story  of  mine  which  appeared  in  the 
"Atlantic  "  was  a  fictitious  narrative  of  certain 
psychical  phenomena  occurring  in  Connecticut, 
78 


WAR   TIME:    FIRST   STORIES 

and  known  to  me,  at  first  hand,  to  be  authentic. 
I  have  yet  to  learn  that  the  story  attracted  any 
attention  from  anybody  more  disinterested  than 
those  few  friends  of  the  sort  who,  in  such  cases, 
are  wont  to  inquire,  in  tones  more  freighted 
with  wonder  than  admiration  :  "  What !  Has 
she  got  into  the  '  Atlantic  '  ?  " 

The  "Century"  came  in  turn,  when  it  came 
into  being.  To  this  delightful  magazine  I  have 
always  been,  and  always  hope  to  be,  a  contribu 
tor. 

I  read,  with  a  kind  of  hopeless  envy,  histories 
and  legends  of  people  of  our  craft  who  "do  not 
write  for  money."  It  must  be  a  pleasant  expe 
rience  to  be  able  to  cultivate  so  delicate  a  class 
of  motives  for  the  privilege  of  doing  one's  best 
to  express  one's  thoughts  to  people  who  care 
for  them.  Personally,  I  have  yet  to  breathe 
the  ether  of  such  a  transcendent  sphere.  I  am 
proud  to  say  that  I  have  always  been  a  working 
woman,  and  always  had  to  be  ;  though  I  ought 
to  add  that  I  am  sure  the  proposal  that  my  fa 
ther's  allowance  to  his  daughter  should  cease, 
did  not  come  from  the  father. 

When  the  first  little  story  appeared  in  "  Har 
per's  Magazine,"  it  occurred  to  me,  with  a  throb 
of  pleasure  greater  than  I  supposed  then  that 
life  could  hold,  that  I  could  take  care  of  myself, 
and  from  that  day  to  this  I  have  done  so. 
79 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

One  hesitates  a  little,  even  in  autobiography, 
about  saying  precisely  this.  But  when  one  re 
members  the  thousands  of  women  who  find  it 
too  easy  to  be  dependent  on  too  heavily-weighted 
and  too  generous  men,  one  hesitates  no  longer 
to  say  anything  that  may  help  those  other  thou 
sands  of  women  who  stand  on  their  own  feet, 
and  their  own  pluck,  to  understand  how  good  a 
thing  it  is  to  be  there. 

Of  all  the  methods  of  making  a  living  open 
to  educated  people  to-day,  the  profession  of  lit 
erature  is,  probably,  the  poorest  in  point  of  mon 
etary  returns.  A  couple  of  authors,  counted 
successful  as  the  world  and  the  word  go,  said 
once,  — 

"  We  have  earned  less  this  year  than  the  fish 
erman  in  the  dory  before  the  door  of  our  sum 
mer  home."  Perhaps  it  had  been  a  good  year 
for  Jack ;  possibly  a  poor  one  for  those  other 
fishers,  who  spread  their  brains  and  hearts  —  a 
piteous  net  —  into  the  seas  of  life  in  quest  of 
thought  and  feeling  that  the  idlers  on  the  banks 
may  take  a  summer's  fancy  to.  But  the  truth 
remains.  A  successful  teacher,  a  clever  manu 
facturer,  a  steady  mechanic,  may  depend  upon 
a  better  income  in  this  country  than  the  writer 
whose  supposed  wealth  he  envies,  and  whose 
books  he  reads  on  Sunday  afternoons,  if  he  is 
not  too  sleepy,  or  does  not  prefer  his  bicycle. 
80 


WAR-TIME:    FIRST   STORIES 

When  we  see  (as  we  have  actually  done)  our 
market-man  driving  by  our  old  buggy  and  cheap 
horse  on  holidays,  with  a  barouche  and  span, 
we  enjoy  the  sight  very  much  ;  and  when  I  say 
(for  the  other  occupant  of  the  buggy  has  a  little 
taste  for  two  horses,  which  I  am  so  plebeian 
as  not  to  share,  having  never  been  able  to  un 
derstand  why  one  is  not  enough  for  anybody), 
"But  would  you  be  the  span-owner  —  for  the 
span  ? "  we  see  the  end  of  the  subject,  and  grow 
ravenously  contented. 

One  cannot  live  by  bread  or  magazine  stories 
alone,  as  the  young  daughter  of  toil  too  soon 
found  out.  Like  other  writers,  I  did  hack  work. 
Of  making  Sunday  -  school  books  I  scarcely 
found  an  end.  I  must  have  written  over  a 
dozen  of  them ;  I  wince,  sometimes,  when  I 
see  their  forgotten  dates  and  titles  in  encyclo 
paedias  ;  but  a  better  judgment  tells  me  that  one 
should  not  be  ashamed  of  doing  hard  work  hon 
estly.  I  was  not  an  artist  at  Sunday-school  lit 
erature  (there  are  such),  and  have  often  won 
dered  why  the  religious  publishing  societies 
kept  me  at  it  so  steadily  and  so  long. 

There  were  tales  of  piety  and  of  mischief,  of 
war  and  of  home,  of  babies  and  of  army  nurses, 
of  tomboys,  and  of  girls  who  did  their  mend 
ing  and  obeyed  their  mothers. 

The  variety  was  the  only  thing  I  can  recall 
81 


CHAPTERS    FROM  A  LIFE 

that  was  commendable  about  these  little  books, 
unless  one  except  a  considerable  dash  of  fun. 

One  of  them  came  back  to  me ;  it  happened 
to  be  the  only  book  I  ever  wrote  that  did  —  and 
when  the  Andover  expressman  brought  in  the 
square  package,  just  before  tea,  I  felt  my  heart 
stand  still  with  mortification.  Fortunately  no 
body  saw  the  expressman.  I  always  kept  my 
ventures  to  myself,  and  did  not,  that  I  can  re 
member,  read  any  manuscript  of  mine  to  suffer 
ing  relatives  or  friends  before  publication.  In^ 
deed,  I  carried  on  the  writer's  profession  for 
many  years  as  if  it  had  been  a  burglar's. 

At  the  earliest  moment  possible  I  got  myself 
into  my  little  room,  and  turned  both  keys  upon 
myself  and  my  rejected  manuscript.  But  when 
I  came  to  read  the  publisher's  letter,  I  learned 
that  hope  still  remained,  a  flickering  torch, 
upon  a  darkened  universe.  That  excellent  man 
did  not  refuse  the  story,  but  raised  objections 
to  certain  points  or  forms  therein,  to  which  he 
summoned  my  attention.  The  criticism  called 
substantially  for  the  rewriting  of  the  book.  I 
lighted  my  lamp,  and,  with  the  June  beetles 
butting  at  my  head,  I  wrote  all  night.  At  three 
o'clock  in  the  morning  I  put  the  last  sentence 
to  the  remodeled  story  —  the  whole  was  a  mat 
ter  of  some  three  hundred  and  fifty  pages  of 
manuscript  —  and  crawled  to  bed.  At  six  I 
82 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST    STORIES 

stole  out  and  found  the  expressman,  that  inno 
cent  and  ignorant  messenger  of  joy  or  woe. 
The  revised  manuscript  reached  the  publisher 
by  ten  .o'clock,  and  his  letter  of  unconditional 
acceptance  was  in  my  hands  before  another 
tea-time. 

I  have  never  been  in  the  habit  of  writing  at 
night,  having  been  early  warned  against  this 
practice  by  the  wisest  of  fathers  (who  notably 
failed  to  follow  his  own  advice) ;  and  this  almost 
solitary  experience  of  the  midnight  oil  remains 
as  vivid  as  yesterday's  sunset  to  me.  My  pres 
ent  opinion  of  that  night's  exploit  is,  that  it 
signified  an  abnormal  pride  which  might  as  well 
have  received  its  due  humiliation.  But,  at  the 
time,  it  seemed  to  be  the  inevitable  or  even  the 
creditable  thing. 

Sunday-school  writers  did  books  by  sets  in 
those  days ;  perhaps  they  do  still.  And  at 
least  two  such  sets  I  provided  to  order,  each  of 
four  volumes.  Both  of  these,  it  so  happens, 
have  survived  their  day  and  generation  —  the 
Tiny  books,  we  called  them,  and  the  Gypsy 
books.  Only  last  year  I  was  called  upon  to  re 
new  the  copyright  for  Gypsy,  a  young  person 
now  thirty  years  old  in  type. 

There  is  a  certain  poetic  justice  in  this  little 
circumstance,  owing  to  the  fact  that  I  never 
worked  harder  in  my  life  at  anything  than  I 
83 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

did  upon  those  little  books ;  for  I  had,  madly 
enough,  contracted  to  supply  four  within  a 
year. 

We  had  no  vacations  in  those  days ;  I  knew 
nothing  of  hills  or  shore ;  but  "  spoke  straight 
on "  through  the  burning  Andover  summers. 
Our  July  and  August  thermometers  used  to 
stand  up  hard  at  over  ninety  degrees,  day  and 
night,  for  nearly  a  week  at  a  time.  The  large 
white  mansion  was  as  comfortable  as  ceiled 
walls  and  back  plaster  could  be  in  that  furnace  ; 
but  my  own  small  room,  on  the  sunny  side  of 
the  house,  was  heated  seven  times  hotter  than 
endurance.  Sometimes  I  got  over  an  open 
register  in  a  lower  room,  and  wrote  in  the  faint 
puffs  of  damp  air  that  played  with  my  misery. 
Sometimes  I  sat  in  the  cellar  itself ;  but  it  was 
rather  dark,  and  one  cherished  a  consciousness 
of  mice.  In  the  orchard  or  the  grove,  one's 
brains  fricasseed  quickly ;  in  fact,  all  out-of- 
doors  was  a  scene  of  bottomless  torment  worthy 
of  a  theology  older  and  severer  than  Andover' s. 
I  am  told  that  the  Andover  climate  has  im 
proved  of  late  years. 

When  the  last  chapter  of  the  last  book  was 
done,  it  occurred  to  me  to  wonder  whether  I 
might  ever  be  able  to  afford  to  get  for  a  week 
or  two  where  the  thermometer  went  below 
ninety  degrees  in  summer.  But  this  was  a  wild 
84 


ELM    ARCH,    ANDOVER 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

and  baseless  dream,  whose  irrationality  I  quickly 
recognized.  For  such  books  as  those  into  which  \ 
I  had  been  coining  a  year  of  my  young  strength 
and  heart,  I  received  the  sum  of  one  hundred 
dollars  apiece.  The  "  Gypsy "  publisher  was 
more  munificent.  He  offered  one  hundred  and 
fifty ;  a  price  which  I  accepted  with  incredible 
gratitude. 

I  mention  these  figures  distinctly,  with  the 
cold-blooded  view  of  dimming  the  rosy  dreams 
of  those  young  ladies  and  gentlemen  with  whom, 
if  I  may  judge  by  their  letters,  our  country 
seems  to  be  brimming  over. 

"Will  you  read  my  poem?"  "Won't  you 
criticise  my  manuscript?"  "I  would  like  to 
forward  my  novel  for  your  perusal."  "I  have 
sent  you  the  copy  of  a  rejected  article  of  mine, 
on  which  I  venture  to  ask  "  —  etc.,  etc.  "  I 
have  been  told  that  all  I  need  is  influence." 
"  My  friends  think  my  book  shows  genius  ;  but 
I  have  no  influence."  "Will  it  trouble  you  too 
much  to  get  this  published  for  me  ?  " 

"Your  influence"  —and  so  on,  and  so  on, 
run  the  piteous  appeals  which  every  successful 
author  receives  from  the  great  unknown  world 
of  discouraged  and  perplexed  young  people  who 
are  mistaking  the  stir  of  youth  or  vanity,  or  the 
ennui  of  idleness,  or  the  sting  of  poverty,  for 
the  solemn  throes  of  power. 
85 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

What  can  one  do  for  them,  whom  no  one  but 
themselves  can  help  ?  What  can  one  say  to 
them,  when  anything  one  says  is  sure  to  give 
pain  or  dishearten  courage  ? 

Write,  if  you  must ;  not  otherwise.  Do  not 
write,  if  you  can  earn  a  fair  living  at  teaching 
or  dressmaking,  at  electricity  or  hod-carrying. 
Make  shoes,  weed  cabbages,  survey  land,  keep 
house,  make  ice-cream,  sell  cake,  climb  a  tele 
phone  pole.  Nay,  be  a  lightning-rod  peddler 
or  a  book  agent,  before  you  set  your  heart  upon 
it  that  you  shall  write  for  a  living.  Do  any 
thing  honest,  but  do  not  write,  unless  God  calls 
you,  and  publishers  want  you,  and  people  read 
you,  and  editors  claim  you.  Respect  the  mar 
ket  laws.  Lean  on  nobody.  Trust  the  com 
mon  sense  of  an  experienced  publisher  to  know 
whether  your  manuscript  is  worth  something 
or  nothing.  Do  not  depend  on  influence.  Ed 
itors  do  not  care  a  drop  of  ink  for  influence. 
What  they  want  is  good  material,  and  the 
fresher  it  is,  the  better.  An  editor  will  pass 
by  an  old  writer  any  day  for  an  unknown  and 
gifted  new  one,  with  power  to  say  a  good  thing 
in  a  fresh  way.  Make  your  calling  and  elec 
tion  sure.  Do  not  flirt  with  your  pen.  Emer 
son's  phrase  was,  "toiling  terribly."  Nothing 
less  will  hint  at  the  grinding  drudgery  of  a  life 
spent  in  living  "by  your  brains." 
86 


WAR-TIME:   FIRST   STORIES 

Inspiration  is  all  very  well ;  but  "  genius  is 
the  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains." 

Living  ?  It  is  more  likely  to  be  dying  by 
your  pen ;  despairing  by  your  pen ;  burying 
hope  and  heart  and  youth  and  courage  in  your 
ink-stand. 

Unless  you  are  prepared  to  work  like  a  slave 
at  his  galley,  for  the  toss-up  chance  of  a  free 
dom  which  may  be  denied  him  when  his  work 
is  done,  do  not  write.  There  are  some  pleasant 
things  about  this  way  of  spending  a  lifetime, 
but  there  are  no  easy  ones. 

There  are  privileges  in  it,  but  there  are 
heart-ache,  mortification,  discouragement,  and 
an  eternal  doubt. 

Had  one  not  better  have  made  bread  or 
picture-frames,  run  a  motor,  or  invented  a  bicy 
cle  tire  ? 

Time  alone  —  perhaps  one  might  say,  eternity 
—  can  answer. 

87 


V 

THE    FALL    OF     THE    PEMBERTON    MILL  :      THE 
GATES    AJAR 

THE  town  of  Lawrence  was  three  miles  and 
a  half  from  Andover.  Up  to  the  year  1860  we 
had  considered  Lawrence  chiefly  in  the  light  of 
a  place  to  drive  to.  To  the  girlish  resources 
which  could,  in  those  days,  only  include  a  trip 
to  Boston  at  the  call  of  some  fate  too  vast  to 
be  expected  more  than  two  or  three  times  a 
year,  Lawrence  offered  consolations  in  the  shape 
of  dry  goods  and  restaurant  ice-cream,  and  a 
slow,  delicious  drive  in  the  family  carryall 
through  sand  flats  and  pine  woods,  and  past 
the  largest  bed  of  the  sweetest  violets  that  ever 
dared  the  blasts  of  a  New  England  spring.  To 
the  pages  of  the  gazetteer  Lawrence  would 
have  been  known  as  a  manufacturing  town  of 
importance.  Upon  the  map  of  our  young  fancy 
the  great  mills  were  sketched  in  lightly  ;  we 
looked  up  from  the  restaurant  ice-cream  to  see 
the  "hands"  pour  out  for  dinner,  a  dark  and 
restless,  but  a  patient  throng ;  used,  in  those 
days,  to  standing  eleven  hours  and  a  quarter  — 
88 


THE   FALL  OF  THE   PEMBERTON  MILL 

women  and  girls  —  at  their  looms,  six  days  of 
the  week,  and  making  no  audible  complaints  ; 
for  socialism  had  not  reached  Lawrence,  and 
anarchy  was  content  to  bray  in  distant  parts  of 
the  geography  at  which  the  factory  people  had 
not  arrived  when  they  left  school. 

Sometimes  we  counted  the  great  mills  as  we 
drove  up  Essex  Street  —  having  come  over  the 
bridge  by  the  roaring  dam  that  tamed  the  proud 
Merrimac  to  spinning  cotton  —  Pacific,  Atlantic, 
Washington,  Pemberton  ;  but  this  was  an  idle, 
aesthetic  pleasure.  We  did  not  think  about  the 
mill  -  people ;  they  seemed  as  far  from  us  as 
the  coal-miners  of  a  vague  West,  or  the  down- 
gatherers  on  the  crags  of  shores  whose  names 
we  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to  remember. 
One  January  evening  we  were  forced  to  think 
about  the  mills  with  curdling  horror,  which  no 
one  living  in  that  locality  when  the  tragedy 
happened  will  forget. 

At  five  o'clock,  the  Pemberton  Mills,  all 
hands  being  at  the  time  on  duty,  without  a 
warning  of  the  catastrophe  sank  to  the  ground. 

At  the  erection  of  the  factory  a  pillar  with  a 
defective  core  had  passed  careless  inspectors. 
In  technical  language,  the  core  had  "floated" 
an  eighth  of  an  inch  from  its  position.  The 
weak  spot  in  the  too  thin  wall  of  the  pillar  had 
bided  its  time,  and  yielded.  The  roof,  the  walls, 
89 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

the  machinery  fell  upon  seven  hundred  and  fifty 
living  men  and  women,  and  buried  them.  Most 
of  these  were  rescued  ;  but  eighty-eight  were 
killed.  As  the  night  came  on,  those  watchers 
on  Andover  Hill  who  could  not  join  the  rescu 
ing  parties  saw  a  strange  and  fearful  light  at 
the  north. 

Where  we  were  used  to  watching  the  beauti 
ful  belt  of  the  lighted  mills  blaze,  —  a  zone  of 
laughing  fire  from  east  to  west,  upon  the  hori 
zon  bar,  —  a  red  and  awful  glare  went  up. 
The  mill  had  taken  fire.  A  lantern,  overturned 
in  the  hands  of  a  man  who  was  groping  to  save 
an  imprisoned  life,  had  flashed  to  the  cotton,  or 
the  wool,  or  the  oil  with  which  the  ruins  were 
saturated.  One  of  the  historic  conflagrations 
of  New  England  resulted. 

With  blanching  cheeks  we  listened  to  the 
whispers  that  told  us  how  the  mill-girls,  caught 
in  the  ruins  beyond  hope  of  escape,  began  to 
sing.  They  were  used  to  singing,  poor  things, 
at  their  looms,  ] —  mill-girls  always  are,  —  and 
their  young  souls  took  courage  from  the  familiar 
sound  of  one  another's  voices.  They  sang  the 
hymns  and  songs  which  they  had  learned  in 
the  schools  and  churches.  No  classical  strains, 
no  "music  for  music's  sake,"  ascended  from 
that  furnace  ;  no  ditty  of  love  or  frolic  ;  but  the 
plain,  religious  outcries  of  the  people :  "  Hea- 
90 


THE   FALL  OF  THE    PEMBERTON   MILL 

ven  is  my  home,"  "  Jesus,  lover  of  my  soul," 
and  "  Shall  we  gather  at  the  river  ? "  Voice 
after  voice  dropped.  The  fire  raced  on.  A 
few  brave  girls  sang  still,  — 

"  Shall  we  gather  at  the  river,  .  .  . 
There  to  walk  and  worship  ever  ?  " 

But  the  startled  Merrimac  rolled  by,  red  as 
blood  beneath  the  glare  of  the  burning  mills, 
and  it  was  left  to  the  fire  and  the  river  to  finish 
the  chorus. 

At  the  time  this  tragedy  occurred,  I  felt 
my  share  of  its  horror,  like  other  people ;  but 
no  more  than  that.  My  brother,  being  of  the 
privileged  sex,  was  sent  over  to  see  the  scene  ; 
but  I  was  not  allowed  to  go. 

Years  after,  I  cannot  say  just  how  many,  the 
half -effaced  negative  came  back  to  form  under 
the  chemical  of  some  new  perception  of  the  sig 
nificance  of  human  tragedy. 

It  occurred  to  me  to  use  the  event  as  the 
basis  of  a  story.  To  this  end  I  set  forth  to 
study  the  subject.  I  had  heard  nothing  in 
those  days  about  "material,"  and  conscience  in 
the  use  of  it,  and  little  enough  about  art.  We 
did  not  talk  about  realism  then.  Of  critical 
phraseology  I  knew  nothing ;  and  of  critical 
standards  only  what  I  had  observed  by  reading 
the  best  fiction.  Poor  novels  and  stories  I  did 
not  read.  I  do  not  remember  being  forbidden 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

them ;  but,  by  that  parental  art  finer  than  de 
nial,  they  were  absent  from  my  convenience. 

It  needed  no  instruction  in  the  canons  of  art, 
however,  to  teach  me  that  to  do  a  good  thing, 
one  must  work  hard  for  it.  So  I  gave  the  best 
part  of  a  month  to  the  study  of  the  Pemberton 
Mill  tragedy,  driving  to  Lawrence,  and  investi 
gating  every  possible  avenue  of  information  left 
at  that  too  long  remove  of  time  which  might 
give  the  data.  I  visited  the  rebuilt  mills,  and 
studied  the  machinery.  I  consulted  engineers 
and  officials  and  physicians,  newspaper  men, 
and  persons  who  had  been  in  the  mill  at  the 
time  of  its  fall.  I  scoured  the  files  of  old  local 
papers,  and  from  these  I  took  certain  portions 
of  names,  actually  involved  in  the  catastro 
phe  ;  though  of  course  fictitiously  used.  When 
there  was  nothing  left  for  me  to  learn  upon  the 
subject,  I  came  home  and  wrote  a  little  story 
called  "  The  Tenth  of  January,"  and  sent  it  to 
"The  Atlantic  Monthly,"  where  it  appeared  in 
due  time. 

This  story  is  of  more  interest  to  its  author 
than  it  can  possibly  be  now  to  any  reader,  be 
cause  it  distinctly  marked  for  me  the  first 
recognition  which  I  received  from  literary  peo- 
pie. 

Whittier  the  poet  wrote  me  his  first  letter, 
after  having  read  this  story.     It  was  soon  foL 
92 


THE   FALL   OF   THE    PEMBERTON   MILL 

lowed  by  a  kind  note  from  Colonel  Thomas 
Wentworth  Higginson.  Both  these  distin 
guished  men  said  the  pleasant  thing  which  goes 
so  far  towards  keeping  the  courage  of  young 
writers  above  sinking  point,  and  which,  to  a 
self -distrustful  nature,  may  be  little  less  than  a 
life-preserver.  Both  have  done  similar  kindness 
to  many  other  beginners  in  our  calling;  but 
none  of  these  can  have  been  more  grateful  for 
it,  or  more  glad  to  say  so,  across  this  long 
width  of  time,  than*  the  writer  of  "  The  Tenth 
of  January." 

It  was  a  defective  enough  little  story,  crude 
and  young ;  I  never  glance  at  it  without  long 
ing  to  write  it  over ;  but  I  cannot  read  it,  to 
this  day,  without  that  physical  distress  which 
exceptional  tragedy  must  produce  in  any  sen 
sitive  organization  ;  nor  can  I  ever  trust  my 
self  to  hear  it  read  by  professional  elocutionists. 
I  attribute  the  success  of  the  story  entirely  to 
the  historic  and  unusual  character  of  the  catas 
trophe  on  whose  movement  it  was  built. 

Of  journalism,  strictly  speaking,  I  did  no 
thing.  But  I  often  wrote  for  weekly  denomi 
national  papers,  to  which  I  contributed  those 
strictly  secular  articles  so  popular  with  the  re 
ligious  public.  My  main  impression  of  them 
now  is  a  pleasant  sense  of  sitting  out  in  the 
apple-trees  in  the  wonderful  Andover  Junes, 
93 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

and  "noticing"  new  books  with  which  Boston 
publishers  kept  me  supplied ;  for  whatever 
reason,  the  weeklies  gave  me  all  I  could  do  at 
this  sort  of  thing.  In  its  course  I  formed  some 
pleasant  acquaintances  ;  among  others  that  of 
Jean  Ingelow.  I  have  never  seen  this  poet, 
whom  I  honor  now  as  much  as  I  admired  then ; 
but  charming  little  notes,  and  books  of  her  own, 
with  her  autograph,  reached  me  from  time  to 
time  for  years.  I  remember  when  "  The  Gates 
Ajar"  appeared,  that  she  frankly  called  it 
"Your  most  strange  book." 

This  brings  me  to  say  :  I  have  been  so  often 
and  so  urgently  asked  to  publish  some  account 
of  the  history  of  this  book,  that  perhaps  I  need 
crave  no  pardon  of  whatever  readers  these  pa 
pers  may  command,  for  giving  more  of  our 
space  to  the  subject  than  it  would  otherwise 
occur  to  one  to  do  to  a  book  so  long  behind  the 
day. 

Of  what  we  know  as  literary  ambition,  I  be 
lieve  myself  to  have  been  as  destitute  at  that 
time  as  any  girl  who  ever  put  pen  to  paper.  I 
was  absorbed  in  thought  and  feeling  as  far  re 
moved  from  the  usual  class  of  emotions  or  mo 
tives  which  move  men  and  women  to  write,  as 
Wachusett  was  from  the  June  lilies  burning 
beside  the  moonlit  cross  in  my  father's  garden. 
Literary  ambition  is  a  good  thing  to  possess  ; 
94 


THE  GATES   AJAR 

and  I  do  not  at  all  suggest  that  I  was  superior 
to  it,  but  simply  apart  from  it.  Of  its  pangs 
and  ecstasies  I  knew  little,  and  thought  less. 

I  have  been  asked,  possibly  a  thousand  times, 
whether  I  looked  upon  that  little  book  as  in  any 
sense  the  result  of  inspiration,  whether  what  is 
called  spiritualistic,  or  of  any  other  sort.  I  have 
always  promptly  said  "  No  "  to  this  question. 
Yet  sometimes  I  wonder  if  that  convenient 
monosyllable  in  deed  and  truth  covers  the  whole 
case. 

When  I  remember  just  how  the  book  came 
to  be,  perceive  the  consequences  of  its  being, 
and  recall  the  complete  unconsciousness  of  the 
young  author  as  to  their  probable  nature,  there 
are  moments  when  I  am  fain  to  answer  the 
question  by  asking  another :  "  What  do  we 
mean  by  inspiration  ?  " 

That  book  grew  so  naturally,  it  was  so  inev 
itable,  it  was  so  unpremeditated,  it  came  so 
plainly  from  that  something  not  one's  self  which 
makes  for  uses  in  which  one's  self  is  extin 
guished,  that  there  are  times  when  it  seems  to 
me  as  if  I  had  no  more  to  do  with  the  writing 
of  it  than  the  bough  through  which  the  wind 
cries,  or  the  wave  by  means  of  which  the  tide 
rises. 

The  angel  said  unto  me  "Write!"  and  I 
wrote. 

95 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

It  is  impossible  to  remember  how  or  when 
the  idea  of  the  book  first  visited  me.  Its  publi 
cation  bears  the  date  of  1 869,  but  I  am  told 
that  the  exact  time  was  in  1 868  ;  since  publish 
ers  sometimes  give  to  an  Autumn  book  the 
date  of  the  coming  year.  My  impressions  are 
that  it  may  have  been  towards  the  close  of 
1864  that  the  work  began  ;  for  there  was  work 
in  it,  more  than  its  imperfect  and  youthful 
character  might  lead  one  ignorant  of  the  art  of 
book-making  to  suppose. 

It  was  not  until  1863  that  I  left  school,  being 
then  just  about  at  my  nineteenth  birthday.  It 
is  probable  that  the  magazine  stories  and  Sun 
day-school  books  and  hack  work  occupied  from 
one  to  two  years  without  interruption  ;  but  I 
have  no  more  temperament  for  dates  in  my  own 
affairs  than  I  have  for  those  of  history.  At  the 
most,  I  could  not  have  been  far  from  twenty 
when  the  book  was  written  ;  possibly  approach 
ing  twenty-one. 

At  that  time,  it  will  be  remembered,  our 
country  was  dark  with  sorrowing  women.  The 
regiments  came  home,  but  the  mourners  went 
about  the  streets. 

The  Grand  Review  passed  through  Washing 
ton  ;  four  hundred  thousand  ghosts  of  murdered 
men  kept  invisible  march  to  the  drum-beats, 
and  lifted  to  the  stained  and  tattered  flags  the 
96 


THE    GATES    AJAR 

proud  and  unreturned  gaze  of  the  dead  who 
have  died  in  their  glory. 

Our  gayest  scenes  were  black  with  crape. 
The  drawn  faces  of  bereaved  wife,  mother, 
sister,  and  widowed  girl  showed  piteously  every 
where.  Gray-haired  parents  knelt  at  the  grave 
of  the  boy  whose  enviable  fortune  it  was  to  be 
brought  home  in  time  to  die  in  his  mother's 
room.  Towards  the  nameless  mounds  of  Ar 
lington,  of  Gettysburg,  and  the  rest,  the  yearn 
ing  of  desolated  homes  went  out  in  those  waves 
of  anguish  which  seem  to  choke  the  very  air 
that  the  happier  and  more  fortunate  must 
breathe. 

Is  there  not  an  actual,  occult  force  in  the  ex 
istence  of  a  general  grief  ?  It  swells  to  a  tide 
whose  invisible  flow  covers  all  the  little  resist 
ance  of  common,  human  joyousness.  It  is  like 
a  material  miasma.  The  gayest  man  breathes 
it,  if  he  breathe  at  all ;  and  the  most  superficial 
cannot  escape  it. 

Into  that  great  world  of  woe  my  little  book 
stole  forth,  trembling.  So  far  as  I  can  remem 
ber  having  had  any  "object "  at  all  in  its  crea 
tion,  I  wished  to  say  something  that  would 
comfort  some  few  —  I  did  not  think  at  all  about 
comforting  many,  not  daring  to  suppose  that 
incredible  privilege  possible  —  of  the  women 
whose  misery  crowded  the  land.  The  smoke 
97 


CHAPTERS  FROM   A   LIFE 

of  their  torment  ascended,  and  the  sky  was 
blackened  by  it.  I  do  not  think  I  thought  so 
much  about  the  suffering  of  men  —  the  fathers, 
the  brothers,  the  sons  —  bereft ;  but  the  wo 
men,  —  the  helpless,  outnumbering,  unconsulted 
women  ;  they  whom  war  trampled  down,  with 
out  a  choice  or  protest ;  the  patient,  limited, 
domestic  women,  who  thought  little,  but  loved 
much,  and,  loving,  had  lost  all,  —  to  them  I 
would  have  spoken. 

For  it  came  to  seem  to  me,  as  I  pondered 
these  things  in  my  own  heart,  that  even  the 
best  and  kindest  forms  of  our  prevailing  beliefs 
had  nothing  to  say  to  an  afflicted  woman  that 
could  help  her  much.  Creeds  and  commenta 
ries  and  sermons  were  made  by  men.  What 
tenderest  of  men  knows  how  to  comfort  his 
own  daughter  when  her  heart  is  broken  ?  What 
can  the  doctrines  do  for  the  desolated  by  death  ? 
They  were  chains  of  rusty  iron,  eating  into  raw 
hearts.  The  prayer  of  the  preacher  was  not 
much  better ;  it  sounded  like  the  language  of 
an  unknown  race  to  a  despairing  girl.  Listen 
to  the  hymn.  It  falls  like  icicles  on  snow.  Or, 
if  it  happen  to  be  one  of  the  old  genuine  out 
cries  of  the  church,  sprung  from  real  human 
anguish  or  hope,  it  maddens  the  listener,  and 
she  flees  from  it,  too  sore  a  thing  to  bear  the 
touch  of  holy  music. 

98 


THE   GATES   AJAR 

At  this  time,  be  it  said,  I  had  no  interest  at 
all  in  any  especial  movement  for  the  peculiar 
needs  of  women  as  a  class.  I  was  reared  in 
circles  which  did  not  concern  themselves  with 
those  whom  we  should  probably  have  called 
agitators.  I  was  taught  the  old  ideas  of  woman 
hood,  in  the  old  way,  and  had  not  to  any  impor 
tant  extent  begun  to  resent  them. 

Perhaps  I  am  wrong  here.  Individually,  I 
may  have  begun  to  recoil  from  them,  but  only 
in  a  purely  selfish,  personal  way,  beyond  which 
I  had  evolved  neither  theory  nor  conscience, 
much  less  the  smallest  tendency  towards  sym 
pathy  with  any  public  movement  of  the  ques 
tion. 

In  the  course  of  two  or  three  years  spent  in 
exceptional  solitude,  I  had  read  a  good  deal  in 
the  direction  of  my  ruling  thoughts  and  feeling, 
and  came  to  the  writing  of  my  little  book,  not 
ignorant  of  what  had  been  written  for  and  by 
the  mourning.  The  results  of  this  reading,  of 
course,  went  into  the  book,  and  seemed  to  me 
at  the  time  by  far  the  most  useful  part  of  it. 

How  the  book  grew,  who  can  say  ?  More  of 
nature  than  of  purpose,  surely.  It  moved  like 
a  tear  or  a  sigh  or  a  prayer.  In  a  sense  I 
scarcely  knew  that  I  wrote  it.  Yet  it  signified 
labor  and  time,  crude  and  young  as  it  looks  to 
me  now ;  and  often  as  I  have  wondered,  from 
99 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A    LIFE 

my  soul,  why  it  has  known  the  history  that  it 
has,  I  have  at  least  a  certain  respect  for  it,  my 
self,  in  that  it  did  not  represent  shiftlessness  or 
sloth,  but  steady  and  conscientious  toil.  There 
was  not  a  page  in  it  which  had  not  been  sub 
jected  to  such  study  as  the  writer  then  knew 
how  to  offer  to  her  manuscripts. 

Every  sentence  had  received  the  best  atten 
tion  which  it  was  in  the  power  of  my  inexperi 
ence  and  youth  to  give.  I  wrote  and  rewrote. 
The  book  was  revised  so  many  times  that  I 
could  have  said  it  by  heart.  The  process  of 
forming  and  writing  "The  Gates  Ajar"  lasted, 
I  think,  nearly  two  years. 

I  had  no  study  or  place  to  myself  in  those 
days ;  only  the  little  room  whose  one  window 
looked  upon  the  garden  cross,  and  which  it  was 
not  expected  would  be  warmed  in  winter. 

The  room  contained  no  chimney,  and,  until  I 
was  sixteen,  no  fire  for  any  purpose.  At  that 
time,  it  being  supposed  that  some  delicacy  of 
the  lungs  had  threatened  serious  results,  my 
father,  who  always  moved  the  sods  beneath 
him  and  the  skies  above  him  to  care  for  a  sick 
child,  had  managed  to  insert  a  little  stove  into 
the  room,  to  soften  its  chill  when  needed.  But 
I  did  not  have  consumption,  only  life ;  and  one 
was  not  expected  to  burn  wood  all  day  for  pri 
vate  convenience  in  our  furnace-heated  house. 

TOO 


THE   GATES 

Was  there  not  the  great  dining-room  where  the 
children  studied  ? 

It  was  not  so  long  since  I,  too,  had  learned 
my  lessons  off  the  dining-room  table,  or  in  the 
corner  by  the  register,  that  it  should  occur  to 
any  member  of  the  family  that  these  opportu 
nities  for  privacy  could  not  answer  my  needs. 

Equally,  it  did  not  occur  to  me  to  ask  for  any 
abnormal  luxuries.  I  therefore  made  the  best 
of  my  conditions,  though  I  do  remember  sorely 
longing  for  quiet. 

This,  at  that  time,  in  that  house,  it  was  im 
possible  for  me  to  compass.  There  was  a  grow 
ing  family  of  noisy  boys, —  four  of  them, —  of 
whom  I  was  the  only  sister,  as  I  was  the  old 
est  child.  When  the  baby  did  not  cry  (I  have 
always  maintained  that  the  baby  cried  pretty 
steadily  both  day  and  night,  but  this  is  a  point 
upon  which  their  mother  and  I  have  affection 
ately  agreed  to  differ),  the  boys  were  shouting 
about  the  grounds,  chasing  each  other  through 
the  large  house,  up  and  down  the  cellar  stairs, 
and  through  the  wide  halls,  a  whirlwind  of 
vigor  and  fun.  They  were  merry,  healthy  boys, 
and  everything  was  done  to  keep  them  so.  I 
sometimes  doubt  if  there  are  any  happier  chil 
dren  growing  anywhere  than  the  boys  and  girls 
of  Andover  used  to  be.  I  was  very  fond  of 
the  boys,  and  cherished  no  objection  to  their 

101 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 


privileges  in  the  house.  But  when  one  went 
down,  on  a  cold  day,  to  the  register,  to  write 
one's  chapter  on  the  nature  of  amusements  in 
the  life  to  come,  and  found  the  dining-room 
neatly  laid  out  in  the  form  of  a  church  congre 
gation,  to  which  a  certain  proportion  of  brothers 
were  enthusiastically  performing  the  duties  of 
an  active  pastor  and  parish,  the  environment 
was  a  definite  check  to  inspiration. 

I  wonder  if  all  Andover  boys  played  at  preach 
ing?  It  certainly  was  the  one  sport  in  our 
house  which  never  satiated. 

Coming  in  one  day,  I  remember,  struggling 
with  certain  hopeless  purposes  of  my  own,  for 
an  afternoon's  work,  I  found  the  dining-room 
chairs  all  nicely  set  in  the  order  of  pews ;  a 
table,  ornamented  with  Bible  and  hymn-books, 
confronted  them ;  behind  it,  on  a  cricket,  tow 
ered  the  bigger  brother,  loudly  holding  forth. 
The  little  brother  represented  the  audience  — 
it  was  usually  the  little  one  who  was  forced  to 
play  this  duller  r61e  —  and,  with  open  mouth, 
and  with  wriggling  feet  turned  in  on  the  rounds 
of  the  chair,  absorbed  as  much  exhortation  as 
he  could  suffer. 

"My  text,  brethren,"  said  the  little  minister, 
"  is,  *  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  unto 
me.'"  Pausing  here  to  make  a  fit  and  full  im 
pression  he  solemnly  proceeded  :  — 

102 


THE   GATES   AJAR 

"My  subject  is,  God ;  Joseph ;  and  Moses  in 
the  bulrushes  !  " 

Discouraged  by  the  alarming  breadth  of  the 
little  preacher's  topic,  I  fled  upstairs  again. 
There  an  inspiration  did,  indeed,  strike  me ;  for 
I  remembered  an  old  fur  cape,  ox  pelisse,  of  my 
mother's,  out  of  fashion,  but  the  warmer  for 
that ;  and  straightway  I  got  me  into  it,  and 
curled  up,  with  my  papers,  on  the  chilly  bed  in 
the  cold  room,  and  went  to  work. 

It  seems  to  me  that  a  good  part  of  "The 
Gates  Ajar  "  was  written  in  that  old  fur  cape. 
Often  I  stole  up  into  the  attic,  or  into  some 
unfrequented  closet,  to  escape  the  noise  of  the 
house  while  at  work.  I  remember,  too,  writ 
ing  sometimes  in  the  barn,  on  the  haymow. 
The  book  extended  over  a  wide  domestic  to 
pography. 

I  hasten  to  say  that  no  person  was  to  blame 
for  inconveniences  of  whose  existence  I  had 
never  complained.  Doubtless  something  would 
have  been  done  to  relieve  them  had  I  asked  for 
it ;  or  if  the  idea  that  my  work  could  ever  be 
of  any  consequence  had  occurred  to  any  of  us. 
Why  should  it  ?  The  girl  who  is  never  "  do 
mestic  "  is  trial  enough  at  her  best.  She  can 
not  cook ;  she  will  not  sew.  She  washes  dishes 
Mondays  and  Tuesdays  under  protest,  while 
the  nurse  and  parlor  maid  are  called  off  from 
103 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

their  natural  avocations,  and  dusts  the  drawing- 
room  with  resentful  obedience.  She  sits  cut 
ting  out  underclothes  in  the  March  vacations, 
when  all  the  schools  are  closed,  and  when  the 
heavy  wagons  from  the  distant  farming  region 
stick  in  the  bottomless  Andover  mud  in  front 
of  the  professor's  house.  The  big  front  door 
is  opened,  and  the  dismal,  creaking  sounds 
come  in. 

The  kind  and  conscientious  new  mother,  to 
whom  I  owe  many  other  gentle  lessons  more 
valuable  than  this,  teaches  how  necessary  to  a 
lady's  education  is  a  neat  needle. 

The  girl  does  not  deny  this  elemental  fact ; 
but  her  eyes  wander  away  to  the  cold  sky  above 
the  Andover  mud,  with  passionate  entreaty. 
To  this  day  I  cannot  hear  the  thick  chu-chunk  ! 
of  heavy  wheels  on  March  mud  without  a  sud 
den  mechanical  echo  of  that  wild,  young  outcry  : 
"  Must  I  cut  out  underclothes  forever  ?  Must 
I  go  on  tucking  the  broken  end  of  the  thread 
into  the  nick  in  the  spool  ?  Is  this  LIFE  ? " 

I  am  more  than  conscious  that  I  could  not 
have  been  an  easy  girl  to  "bring  up,"  and  am 
sure  that  for  whatever  little  difficulties  beset 
the  earlier  time  of  my  ventures  as  a  writer,  no 
person  was  in  any  fault.  They  were  doubtless 
good  for  me,  in  their  way.  We  all  know  that 
some  of  the  greatest  of  brain-workers  have  se- 
104 


THE  GATES   AJAR 

lected  the  poorest  and  barest  of  spots  in  which 
to  study.  Luxury  and  bric-a-brac  come  to  easy 
natures  or  in  easy  years.  The  energy  that  very 
early  learns  to  conquer  difficulty  is  always  worth 
its  price. 

I  used,  later,  to  hear  in  Boston  the  story  of 
the  gentleman  who  once  took  a  friend  to  see 
the  room  of  his  son  at  Harvard  College.  The 
friend  was  a  man  of  plain  life,  but  of  rich  men 
tal  achievement.  He  glanced  at  the  Persian 
rugs  and  costly  draperies  of  the  boy's  quarters 
in  silence. 

"Well,"  cried  the  fond  father,  "don't  you 
think  my  son  has  a  pretty  room  ? " 

"Sir,"  said  the  visitor,  with  gentle  candor, 
"yoti '//  never  raise  a  scholar  on  that  carpet." 

Out  of  my  discomforts,  which  were  small 
enough,  grew  one  thing  for  which  I  have  all 
my  life  been  grateful  —  the  formation  of  fixed 
habits  of  work. 

I  have  seldom  waited  for  inspiration  before 
setting  about  a  task  to  be  done.  Life  is  too 
short  for  that.  Broken  health  has  too  often 
interrupted  a  regimen  of  study  which  ought  to 
have  been  more  continuous ;  but,  so  far  as  I 
may  venture  to  offer  an  opinion  from  personal 
experience,  I  should  say  that  the  writers  who 
would  be  wise  to  play  hide  and  seek  with  their 
own  moods  are  few. 

105 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

According  to  my  custom,  I  said  nothing  (so 
far  as  I  can  remember)  to  any  person  about 
the  book. 

It  cannot  be  said  that  I  had  any  hope  of 
success  with  it ;  or  that,  in  my  most  irrational 
dreams,  anything  like  the  consequences  of  its 
publication  ever  occurred  to  my  fancy.  But  I 
did  distinctly  understand  that  I  had  set  forth 
upon  a  venture  totally  dissimilar  to  the  safe 
and  respectable  careers  of  my  dozen  Sunday- 
school  books. 

I  am  sometimes  asked  why  it  was  that,  hav 
ing  such  a  rare  critic  at  first  hand  as  my  father, 
I  did  not  more  often  submit  my  manuscripts 
to  his  judgment.  It  would  be  difficult  to  say 
precisely  why.  The  professor  of  rhetoric  was 
a  very  busy  man  ;  and  at  that  time  the  illness 
which  condemned  him  to  thirty  years  of  invalid 
suffering  was  beginning  to  make  itself  manifest. 
I  can  remember  more  often  throwing  down  my 
pen  to  fly  out  and  beg  the  children  to  be  quiet 
in  the  garden  while  the  sleepless  man  struggled 
for  a  few  moments'  rest  in  the  daytime,  or 
stealing  on  tiptoe  to  his  locked  door,  at  any 
hour  of  the  night,  to  listen  for  signs  of  sudden 
illness  or  need  of  help ;  these  things  come  back 
more  easily  than  the  desire  to  burden  him  with 
what  I  wrote. 

Yet  perhaps  that  abnormal  pride,  whose  ex- 
106 


THE   GATES  AJAR 

istence  I  have  admitted,  had  quite  as  much  to 
do  with  this  restraint. 

When  a  thing  was  published,  then  quickly  to 
him  with  it !  His  sympathy  and  interest  were 
unfailing,  and  his  criticism  only  too  gentle ; 
though  it  could  be  a  sword  of  flame  when  he 
chose  to  smite. 

Unknown  to  himself,  I  had  dedicated  "The 
Gates  Ajar  "  to  him.  In  this  dedication  there 
was  a  slip  in  good  English,  or,  at  least,  in  such 
English  as  the  professor  wrote  and  spoke.  I 
had  used  the  word  "  nears  "  as  a  verb,  instead 
of  its  proper  synonym,  "  approaches."  He  read 
the  dedication  quietly,  thanked  me  tenderly  for 
it,  and  said  nothing.  It  was  left  for  me  to  find 
out  my  blunder  for  myself,  as  I  did,  in  due 
time.  He  had  not  the  heart  to  tell  me  of  it 
then.  Nor  did  he  insinuate  his  consciousness 
that  the  dedication  might  seem  to  involve  him 
—  as  it  did  in  certain  citadels  of  stupidity  —  in 
the  views  of  the  book. 

The  story  was  sent  to  its  publishers,  Messrs. 
Ticknor  and  Fields,  and  leisurely  awaited  their 
verdict.  As  I  had  written  somewhat  for  their 
magazines,  "  The  Atlantic  "  and  "  Our  Young 
Folks,"  I  did  not  come  quite  as  a  stranger. 
Still,  the  fate  of  the  book  hung  upon  a  delicate 
scale.  It  was  two  years  from  the  time  the  story 
went  to  its  publishers  before  it  appeared  between 
107 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

covers.  How  much  of  this  period  the  author 
was  kept  in  suspense  I  cannot  remember ;  but, 
I  think,  some  time.  I  have  the  impression  that 
the  disposal  of  the  book,  so  far  as  that  firm 
went,  wavered  for  a  while  upon  the  decision 
of  one  man,  whose  wife  shared  the  reading  of 
the  manuscript.  "Take  it,"  she  said  at  last, 
decidedly  ;  and  the  fiat  went  forth.  The  lady 
afterwards  became  a  personal  friend,  and  I 
hope  I  may  not  forfeit  the  treasure  of  her  affec 
tion  by  this  late  and  public  recognition  of  the 
pleasant  part  she  bore  in  the  fortunes  of  my 
life. 

The  book  was  accepted,  and  still  this  piece 
of  good  luck  did  not  make  my  head  spin.  I 
had  lived  among  book-makers  too  much  to  ex 
pect  the  miracle.  I  went  soberly  back  to  my 
hack  work,  and  on  with  my  Sunday  -  school 
books. 

One  autumn  day  the  customary  package  of 
gift  copies  of  the  new  book  made  its  way  to 
Andover  Hill ;  but  I  opened  it  without  elation, 
the  experience  being  so  far  from  my  first  of  its 
kind.  The  usual  note  of  thanks  was  returned 
to  the  publishers,  and  quiet  fell  again.  Uncon 
scious  of  either  hope  or  fear,  I  kept  on  about 
my  business,  and  the  new  book  was  the  last 
thing  on  earth  with  which  I  concerned  myself. 

One  morning,  not  many  weeks  after  its  pub- 
1 08 


THE  GATES  AJAR 

lication,  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  James  T. 
Fields.  He,  who  was  the  quickest  of  men  to 
do  a  kindness,  and  surest  to  give  to  young 
writers  the  encouraging  word  for  which  they 
had  not  hope  enough  to  listen,  had  hurried  him 
self  to  break  to  me  the  news. 

"  Your  book  is  moving  grandly,"  so  he  wrote. 
"  It  has  already  reached  a  sale  of  four  thousand 
copies.  We  take  pleasure  in  sending  you  "  — 
He  enclosed  a  check  for  six  hundred  dollars, 
the  largest  sum  on  which  I  had  ever  set  my 
startled  eyes.  It  would  not,  by  my  contract, 
have  been  due  me  for  six  months  or  more  to 
come. 

The  little  act  was   like   him,  and   like  the 
courteous  and  generous  house  on  whose  list  I 
have  worked  for  thirty  years. 
109 


VI 

AND    STILL   THE    GATES    AJAR 

As  was  said  in  the  last  chapter,  "  The  Gates 
Ajar"  was  written  without  hope  or  expectation 
of  any  especial  success,  and,  when  the  happy 
storm  broke,  in  truth,  I  was  the  most  aston 
ished  girl  in  North  America.  From  the  day 
when  Mr.  Fields'  thoughtful  note  reached  the 
Andover  post-office,  that  miracle  such  as  we 
read  of,  often  in  fiction,  and  sometimes  in  liter 
ary  history,  touched  the  young  writer's  life ; 
and  it  began  over  again,  as  a  new  form  of  or 
ganization. 

As  I  look  back  upon  them,  the  next  few 
years  seem  to  have  been  a  series  of  amazing 
phantasmagoria.  Indeed,  at  the  time,  they 
were  scarcely  more  substantial.  A  phantom 
among  phantoms,  I  was  borne  along.  Incredu 
lous  of  the  facts  and  dubious  of  my  own  iden 
tity,  I  whirled  through  readjustments  of  scene, 
of  society,  of  purposes,  of  hopes,  and  now,  at 
last,  of  ambitions ;  and  always  of  hard  work 
and  plenty  of  it.  Really,  I  think  the  gospel  of 
no 


JAMES    T.    FIELDS 


AND    STILL   THE   GATES   AJAR 

work  then,  as  always,  and  to  all  of  us,  was  sal 
vation  from  a  good  deal  of  nonsense  incident 
to  the  situation. 

I  have  been  told  that  the  American  circula 
tion  of  the  book,  which  has  remained  below 
one  hundred  thousand,  was  outrun  by  that  in 
Great  Britain.  Translations,  of  course,  were 
manifold.  The  French,  the  German,  the  Dutch, 
the  Italian  have  been  conscientiously  sent  to 
the  author;  some  others,  I  think,  have  not. 
More  applications  to  republish  my  books  have 
reached  me  from  Germany  than  from  any  other 
country.  For  awhile,  with  the  tenderness  of 
a  novice  in  such  experience,  I  kept  all  these 
foreign  curiosities  on  my  book-shelves ;  but  the 
throes  of  several  New  England  "  movings " 
have  scattered  their  ashes. 

Not  long  ago,  I  came  across  a  tiny  pamphlet, 
in  which  I  used  to  feel  more  honest  pride  than 
in  any  edition  of  "The  Gates  Ajar"  which  it 
has  ever  been  my  fortune  to  handle.  It  is  a 
sickly  yellow  thing,  covered  with  a  coarse  de 
sign  of  some  kind,  in  which  the  wings  of  a  par 
ticularly  sprawly  angel  predominate.  The  print 
is  abhorrent,  and  the  paper  such  as  any  respect 
able  publisher  would  prepare  to  be  condemned 
for  in  this  world  and  in  that  to  come.  In  fact, 
the  entire  book  was  thus  given  out  by  one  of 
the  most  enterprising  of  English  pirates  as  an 
in 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

advertisement  for  a  patent  medicine.  I  have 
never  traced  the  chemical  history  of  the  drug ; 
but  it  has  pleased  my  fancy  to  suppose  it  to  be 
the  one  in  which  Mrs.  Holt,  the  mother  of  Fe 
lix,  dealt  so  largely ;  and  whose  sale  Felix  put 
forth  his  mighty  conscience  to  suppress. 

Of  course,  owing  to  the  state  of  our  copy 
right  laws  at  that  time,  all  this  foreign  publica 
tion  was  piratical ;  and  most  of  it  brought  no 
visible  consequence  to  the  author,  beyond  that 
cold  tribute  to  personal  vanity  on  which  our 
unlucky  race  is  expected  to  feed.  I  should 
make  one  exception.  The  house  of  Sampson 
Low  and  Company  honorably  offered  me  at  a 
very  early  date  a  certain  recognition  of  their 
editions.  Other  reputable  English  houses  since, 
in  the  case  of  succeeding  books,  have  passed 
contracts  of  a  gentlemanly  nature,  with  the 
disproportionately  grateful  author;  who  was, 
of  course,  entirely  at  their  mercy.  When  an 
American  writer  compares  the  sturdy  figures 
of  the  foreign  circulation  with  the  attenuated 
numerals  of  such  visible  returns  as  reach  him, 
he  is  more  puzzled  in  his  mind  than  surfeited 
in  his  purse.  But  the  relation  of  foreign  pub 
lishers  to  "  home  talent "  is  an  ancient  and 
honorable  conundrum,  which  it  is  not  for  this 
paper  or  its  writer  to  solve. 

Nevertheless,  I  found  the  patent  medicine 

112 


AND   STILL  THE   GATES    AJAR 

Gates  Ajar  delicious,  and  used  to  compare  it 
with  Messrs.  Fields  and  Osgood's  edition  de 
luxe  with  an  undisguised  delight  which  I  found 
it  difficult  to  induce  the  best  of  publishers  to 
share. 

Like  most  such  matters,  the  first  energy  of 
the  book  has  its  funny  and  its  serious  side.  A 
man  coming  from  a  far  Western  village,  and 
visiting  Boston  for  the  first  time,  is  said  to  have 
approached  a  bar-tender  in  an  exclusive  hotel 
thus  confidentially  :  — 

"  Excuse  me  —  but  I  am  a  stranger  in  this 
part  of  the  country,  and  I  want  to  ask  a  ques 
tion.  Everywhere  I  go,  I  see  posted  up  like 
this  —  The  Gates  Ajar!  The  Gates  Ajar!  — 
I  'm  sick  to  death  of  the  sight  of  the  durn  thing ; 
I  have  n't  darst  to  ask  what  it  is.  Do  tell  a 
fellar  !  Is  it  a  new  kind  of  drink  ? " 

There  was  a  Gates  Ajar  tippet,  for  sale  in 
the  country  groceries ;  I  have  fancied  that  it 
was  a  knit  affair  of  as  many  colors  as  the  jewels 
in  the  eternal  portals,  and  extremely  openwork. 
There  was  a  Gates  Ajar  collar  —  paper,  I  fear 
—  loading  the  city  counters.  Ghastly  rumors 
have  reached  me  of  the  existence  of  a  Gates 
Ajar  cigar;  I  have  never  personally  set  my  eyes 
upon  these  tangible  forms  of  earthly  fame.  If 
the  truth  must  be  told,  I  have  kept  a  cowardly 
distance  from  them.  Music,  of  course,  took 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

her  turn  at  the  book,  and  popular  "pieces" 
warbled  under  its  title.  One  of  these,  I  think, 
is  sung  in  Sunday-schools  to  this  day.  Then 
there  was,  and  still  exists,  the  Gates  Ajar 
funeral  piece.  This  used  to  seem  to  me  the 
least  serious  of  them  all ;  but,  by  degrees,  when 
I  saw  the  persistence  of  force  in  that  elaborate 
symbol,  and  how  many  mourning  people  were 
so  constituted  as  to  find  comfort  in  it,  I  came 
to  have  a  tolerance  for  it  which  even  grows 
into  a  certain  tenderness.  I  may  frankly  ad 
mit  that  I  have  begun  to  love  it,  since  I  heard 
about  the  two  ragged  little  newsboys  who  came 
to  the  eminent  city  florist,  with  all  their  savings 
clenched  in  their  grimy  fists,  and  thus  made 
known  their  case  :  — 

"  Ye  see  Larks  he  was  our  pardner, —  him  an' 
us  sold  on  the  same  beat, —  an'  he  jes'  got  run 
over  by  a  'lectric,  and  it  went  over  his  back,  so 
they  tuk  him  to  the  horspittle,  'n  Larks  he  up 
an'  died  there  yestiddy.  So  us  fellars  were 
goin'  to  give  Larks  a  stylish  funeril,  you  bet. 
We  liked  Larks  —  an'  it  went  over  his  back. 
Say,  mister,  there  ain't  nothin'  mean  'bout  us, 
come  to  buryin'  of  Larks ;  'n  we  've  voted  to 
settle  on  one  them  Gates  Ajar  pieces  —  made 
o'  flowers,  doncherknow.  So  me  'n  him  an' 
the  other  fellars  we  Ve  saved  up  all  our  prop- 
urty,  for  we  're  a-goin'  ter  give  Larks  a  stylish 
114 


AND   STILL  THE   GATES   AJAR 

f uneril  —  an'  here  it  is,  mister.  I  told  the  kids 
ef  there  was  more  'n  enough,  you  's  trow  in  a 
few  greens,  anyhow.  Make  up  de  order  right 
away,  mister,  and  give  us  our  money's  worf 
now,  sure  —  for  Larks." 

The  gamin  proudly  counted  out  upon  the 
marble  slab  of  that  fashionable  flower  store 
the  sum  of  seventy-five  cents.  The  florist  — 
blessings  on  him !  —  is  said  not  to  have  unde 
ceived  the  little  fellows,  but  to  have  duly  hon 
ored  their  "order;"  and  the  biggest  and  most 
costly  Gates  Ajar  piece  to  be  had  in  the  mar 
ket  went  to  the  hospital  and  helped  to  bury 
Larks. 

Of  course,  as  is  customary  in  the  case  of  all 
authors  who  have  written  one  popular  book,  re 
quests  for  work  at  once  rained  in  on  the  new 
study  on  Andover  Hill ;  for  it  soon  became 
evident  that  I  must  have  a  quiet  .place  to  write 
in.  In  the  course  of  time  I  found  it  convenient 
to  take  for  working  hours  a  sunny  room  in  the 
farmhouse  of  the  seminary  estate ;  a  large,  old- 
fashioned  building  next  to  my  father's  house. 
In  still  later  years,  I  was  allowed  to  build  over 
for  my  own  purposes  the  summer  house  under 
the  big  elm  in  my  father's  garden,  once  used 
by  my  mother  for  her  own  study,  and  well  re 
membered  by  all  persons  interested  in  Andover 
scenery.  This  building  had  been  for  some 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

years  used  exclusively  as  a  mud-bakery  by  the 
boys ;  it  was  piled  with  those  clay  turnovers 
and  rolls  and  pies  in  whose  manufacture  the 
most  select  circles  of  Andover  youth  delighted. 
But  the  bakery  was  metamorphosed  into  a 
decent,  dear  little  room,  about  9  by  n,  and 
commanding  the  sun  on  the  four  sides  of  its 
quadrangle.  In  fact,  it  was  a  veritable  sun- 
bath  ;  and  how  dainty  was  the  tip-drip  of  the 
icicles  from  the  big  elm-bough,  upon  the  little 
roof !  To  this  spot  I  used  to  travel  down  in  all 
weathers;  sometimes  when  it  was  so  slippery 
on  the  hill  behind  the  carriage  house  (for  the 
garden  paths  were  impassable  in  winter)  that 
I  have  had  to  return  to  primitive  methods  of 
locomotion,  and  just  sit  down  and  coast  half 
the  way  on  the  crust.  Later  still,  when  an 
accident  and  crutches  put  this  delightful  means 
of  locomotion  out  of  the  question,  the  summer 
house  (in  a  blizzard,  I  delighted  in  the  name) 
was  moved  up  beside  my  father's  study.  I 
have,  in  fact,  always  had  an  out-of-door  study, 
apart  from  the  house  I  lived  in ;  and  have  come 
to  look  upon  it  as  quite  a  necessity,  so  that  we 
have  carried  on  the  custom  in  our  Gloucester 
home.  We  heartily  recommend  it  to  all  people 
who  live  by  their  brains  and  pens.  The  inces 
sant  trotting  to  and  fro  on  little  errands  is  a 
wholesome  thing.  Proof-sheets,  empty  ink- 
116 


AND   STILL  THE  GATES  AJAR 

stands,  dried-up  mucilage,  yawning  wood  boxes, 
wet  feet,  missing  scissors,  unfilled  kerosene 
lamps,  untimely  thirst,  or  unromantic  lunches, 
the  morning  mail,  and  the  dinner-bell,  and  the 
orders  of  one's  pet  dog,  all  are  so  many  imperi 
ous  summons  to  breathe  the  tingling  air  and 
stir  the  blood  and  muscle. 

Be  as  uncomfortable  or  as  cross  about  it  as 
you  choose  —  an  out-of-door  study  is  sure  to 
prove  your  best  friend.  You  become  a  species 
of  literary  tramp,  and  absorb  something  of  the 
tramp's  fine  hygiene.  It  is  impossible  to  be 
"cooped"  at  your  desk,  if  you  have  to  cross 
a  garden  or  a  lawn  thirty  times  a  day  to  get 
to  it.  And  what  reporter  can  reach  that  sweet 
seclusion  across  the  distant  housemaid's  wily 
and  experienced  art  ?  What  autograph  or  lion 
hunter  can  ruin  your  best  chapter  by  bombard 
ment  in  mid-morning  ? 

In  the  old  farmhouse  study  I  remember  one 
of  my  earliest  callers  from  the  publishing  world, 
that  seems  always  to  stand  with  clawing  fingers 
demanding  copy  of  the  people  least  able  to  give 
it.  He  was  an  emissary  from  "The  Youth's 
Companion,"  who  threatened  or  cajoled  me  into 
a  vow  to  supply  him  with  a  certain  number  of 
stories.  My  private  suspicion  is  that  I  have 
just  about  at  this  present  time  completed  my 
share  in  that  ancient  bargain,  —  so  patient  and 
117 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

long-suffering  has  this  pleasant  paper  been  with 
me  !  I  took  particular  delight  in  that  especial 
visit,  remembering  the  time  when  the  Compan 
ion  gave  my  first  pious  little  sentences  to  print, 
and  paid  me  with  the  paper  for  a  year. 

"The  Gates  Ajar"  was  attacked  by  the 
press.  In  fact,  it  was  virulently  bitten.  The 
reviews  of  the  book,  some  of  them,  reached  the 
point  of  hydrophobia.  Others  were  found  to  be 
in  a  milder  pathological  condition.  Still  others 
were  gentle  or  even  friendly  enough.  Reli 
gious  papers  waged  war  across  that  girl's  notions 
of  the  life  to  come,  as  if  she  had  been  an  evil 
spirit  let  loose  upon  accepted  theology  for  the 
destruction  of  the  world.  The  secular  press 
was  scarcely  less  disturbed  about  the  matter ; 
which  it  treated,  however,  with  the  more 
amused  good-humor  of  a  man  of  the  world  puz 
zled  by  a  religious  disagreement. 

In  the  days  of  the  Most  Holy  Inquisition 
there  was  an  old  phrase  whose  poignancy  has 
always  seemed  to  me  to  be  but  half  appre 
ciated.  One  did  not  say  :  He  was  racked ;  she 
was  burned  ;  they  were  flayed  alive  ;  or  pulled 
apart  with  little  pincers ;  or  clasped  in  the 
arms  of  the  red-hot  Virgin.  One  was  too  well- 
bred  for  so  bold  a  use  of  language.  One  po 
litely  and  simply  said,  He  was  put  to  the  ques 
tion. 

118 


AND   STILL  THE  GATES   AJAR 

The  young  author  of  "The  Gates  Ajar"  was 
only  put  to  the  question.  Heresy  was  her 
crime,  and  atrocity  her  name.  She  had  out 
raged  the  church.  She  had  blasphemed  its 
sanctities.  She  had  taken  live  coals  from  the 
altar  in  her  impious  hand.  The  sacrilege  was 
too  serious  to  be  dismissed  with  cold  contempt. 
Opinion  battled  about  that  poor  little  tale,  as  if 
it  had  held  the  power  to  overthrow  church  and 
state  and  family. 

It  was  an  irreverent  book  —  it  was  a  devout 
book.  It  was  a  strong  book  —  it  was  a  weak 
book.  It  was  a  religious  book  —  it  was  an 
immoral  book.  (I  have  forgotten  just  why  ;  in 
fact,  I  think  I  never  knew.)  It  was  a  good 
book  —  it  was  a  bad  book.  It  was  calculated 
to  comfort  the  comfortless  —  it  was  calculated 
to  lead  the  impressionable  astray.  It  was  an 
accession  to  Christian  literature  —  it  was  a  dis 
grace  to  the  religious  antecedents  of  the  author, 
and  so  on,  and  so  forth. 

At  first,  when  some  of  these  reviews  fell  in 
my  way,  I  read  them,  knowing  no  better.  But 
I  very  soon  learned  to  let  them  alone.  The 
kind  notices,  while  they  gave  me  a  sort  of  cour 
age  which  by  temperament  possibly  I  needed 
more  than  all  young  writers  may,  overwhelmed 
me,  too,  by  a  sense  of  my  own  inadequacy  to 
be  a  teacher  of  the  most  solemn  truths,  on  any 
119 


CHAPTERS  FROM   A   LIFE 

such  scale  as  that  towards  which  events  seemed 
to  be  pointing.  The  unfair  notices  put  me  in 
a  tremor  of  distress.  The  brutal  ones  affected 
me  like  a  blow  in  the  face  from  the  fist  of  a 
ruffian. 

None  of  them,  that  I  can  remember,  ever 
helped  me  in  any  sense  whatsoever  to  do  bet 
ter  work.  I  quickly  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  was  not  adapted  to  reading  the  views  of 
the  press  about  my  own  writing.  I  made  a  vow 
to  let  them  alone,  and  from  that  day  to  this  I 
have  kept  it. 

Unless  in  the  case  of  something  especially 
brought  to  my  attention  by  friends,  I  do  not 
read  any  reviews  of  my  books.  Of  course,  in 
a  general  way,  one  knows  if  some  important 
pen  has  shown  a  comprehension  of  what  one 
meant  to  do  and  tried  to  do,  or  has  spattered 
venom  upon  one's  poor  achievement.  Quite 
fairly,  one  cannot  sit  like  the  Queen  in  the 
kitchen,  eating  only  bread  and  honey.  And 
venom  disagrees  with  me. 

I  sometimes  think,  if  I  may  take  advantage 
of  this  occasion  to  make  the  only  reply  in  a 
working  life  of  thirty  years  to  any  of  the 
"  slashers  "  with  whose  devotion  I  am  told  that 
I  have  been  honored,  —  I  sometimes  think,  good 
brother  critics,  that  I  have  had  my  share  of  the 
attentions  of  poisoned  weapons. 

120 


AND   STILL  THE   GATES   AJAR 

But,  regarding  my  reviewers  with  the  great 
good-humor  of  one  who  never  reads  what  they 
say,  I  can  afford  to  wish  them  lively  luck  and 
better  game  in  some  quivering  writer,  who 
takes  the  big  pile  of  what  it  is  the  fashion  to 
call  criticisms  from  the  publishers'  table,  and 
conscientiously  reads  them  through.  With  this 
form  of  being  "put  to  the  question"  I  will 
have  nothing  to  do.  If  it  gives  amusement  to 
the  reviewers,  they  are  welcome  to  their  sport. 
But  they  stab  at  the  summer  air,  so  far  as  any 
writer  is  concerned  who  has  the  pertinacity  of 
purpose  to  let  them  alone. 

Long  after  I  had  adopted  the  rule  to  read 
no  notices  of  my  work,  I  learned  from  George 
Eliot  that  the  same  had  been  her  custom  for 
many  years  ;  and  felt  reinforced  in  the  manage 
ment  of  my  little  affairs  by  this  great  example. 
Discussing  the  question  once,  with  one  of  our 
foremost  American  writers,  I  was  struck  with 
something  like  holy  envy  in  his  expression. 
He  had  received  rough  handling  from  those 
"critics"  who  seem  to  consider  authors  as 
their  natural  foes,  and  who  delight  in  aiming 
the  hardest  blows  at  the  heaviest  enemy.  His 
fame  is  immeasurably  superior  to  that  of  all  his 
reviewers  put  together. 

"Don't  you  really  read  them?"  he  asked 
wistfully.  "  I  wish  I  could  say  as  much.  I  'm 
121 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

afraid  I  should  n't  have  the  perseverance  to 
keep  that  up  right  along." 

In  interesting  contrast  to  all  this  discord 
from  the  outside,  came  the  personal  letters. 

The  book  was  hardly  under  way  before  the 
storm  of  them  set  in.  It  began  like  a  New 
England  snowstorm,  with  a  few  large,  earnest 
flakes ;  then  came  the  whirl  of  them,  big  and 
little,  sleet  and  rain,  fast  and  furious,  regular 
and  irregular,  scurrying  and  tumbling  over  each 
other  through  the  Andover  mails. 

The  astonished  girl  bowed  her  head  before 
the  blast  at  first,  with  a  kind  of  terrified  humil 
ity.  Then,  by  degrees  she  plucked  up  heart  to 
give  to  each  letter  its  due  attention.  It  would 
not  be  very  easy  to  make  any  one  understand 
who  had  not  been  through  a  closely  similar 
experience,  just  what  it  meant  to  live  in  the 
centre  of  such  a  whirlwind  of  human  suffering. 
It  used  to  seem  to  me  sometimes,  at  the  end  of 
a  week's  reading  of  this  large  and  painful  mail, 
as  if  the  whole  world  were  one  great  outcry. 
What  a  little  portion  of  it  cried  to  the  young 
writer  of  one  little  book  of  consolation  !  Yet, 
how  the  ear  and  heart  ached  under  the  piteous 
monotony !  I  made  it  a  rule  to  answer  every 
civil  letter  that  I  received ;  and,  as  few  of  them 
were  otherwise,  this  correspondence  was  no 
light  load. 

122 


AND   STILL  THE    GATES  AJAR 

I  have  called  it  monotonous,  yet  there  was  a 
curious  variety  in  monotony  such  as  no  other 
book  has  brought  to  the  author's  attention. 
The  same  mail  gave  the  pleasant  word  of  some 
distinguished  writer,  who  was  so  kind  as  to  en 
courage  a  beginner  in  his  own  art,  or  so  much 
kinder  as  gently  and  intelligently  to  point  out 
her  defects;  and  beneath  this  welcome  note 
lay  the  sharp  rebuke  of  some  obscure  parish 
ioner,  who  found  the  Temple  of  Zion  menaced 
to  its  foundation  by  my  little  story.  Hunters- 
of  heresy  and  of  autograph  pursued  their  game 
side  by  side.  Here  some  man  of  affairs  writes 
to  say  (it  seemed  incredible,  but  it  used  to  hap 
pen)  that  the  book  has  given  him  his  first  in 
telligent  respect  for  religious  faith.  There,  a 
poor  colored  girl,  inmate  of  a  charitable  institu 
tion,  where  she  has  figured  as  in  deed  and  truth 
the  black  sheep,  sends  her  pathetic  tribute  :  — 

"  If  heaven  is  like  that,  I  want  to  go,  and  I 
mean  to ! " 

To-day  I  am  berated  by  the  lady  who  is 
offended  with  the  manner  of  my  doctrine.  I 
am  called  hard  names  in  no  soft  language,  and 
advised  to  pray  Heaven  for  forgiveness  for  the 
harm  I  am  doing  by  this  ungodly  book. 

To-morrow  I  receive  a  widower's  letter  of 
twenty-six  pages,  rose-tinted,  and  perfumed. 
He  relates  his  personal  history.  He  encloses 
123 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

the  photograph  of  his  dead  wife,  his  living  chil 
dren,  and  himself.  He  adds  the  particulars  of 
his  income,  which  I  am  given  to  understand  is 
large.  He  adds  —  but  I  turn  to  the  next. 

This  correspondent,  like  scores  upon  scores 
of  others,  will  be  told  instanter  if  I  am  a  Spir 
itualist.  On  this  vital  point  he  demands  my 
confession,  or  my  life  ! 

The  next  desires  to  be  informed  how  much 
of  the  story  is  autobiography,  and  requires  the 
regiment  and  company  in  which  my  brother 
served. 

And  now,  I  am  haughtily  taken  to  task  by 
some  unknown  nature  for  allowing  my  heroine 
to  be  too  much  attached  to  her  brother.  I  am 
told  that  this  is  impious ;  that  only  our  Maker 
should  receive  such  adoring  affection  as  poor 
Mary  offered  to  dead  Roy. 

Having   recovered   from   this    inconceivable 
slap  in  the  face,  I  go  bravely  on.     I  open  the 
covers  of  a  pamphlet  as  green  as  Erin,  entitled 
"Antidote  to  the  Gates  Ajar,"  consider  myself  j 
as  the  poisoner  of  the  innocent  and  reverent 
mind,  and  learn  what  I  may  from  this  lesson  in   • 
toxicology. 

There  was  always  a  certain  share  of  abuse  in 
these  outpourings  from  strangers  —  it  was  rela 
tively  small,   but  it  was  enough   to   save   my 
spirits,  by  the  humor  of  it,  or  they  would  have 
124 


AND    STILL  THE   GATES   AJAR 

been  crushed  with  the  weight  of  the  great 
maj  ority. 

I  remember  the  editor  of  a  large  Western 
paper,  who  inclosed  a  clipping  from  his  last 
review  for  my  perusal.  It  treated,  not  of  "  The 
Gates  Ajar  "  just  then,  but  of  a  magazine  story 
in  "Harper's,"  "The  Century,"  or  wherever. 
The  story  was  told  in  the  first  person  ficti 
tious,  and  began  after  this  fashion  :  — 

"I  am  an  old  maid  of  fifty-six,  and  have 
spent  most  of  my  life  in  boarding-houses." 
(The  writer  was,  be  it  said,  at  that  time 
scarcely  twenty-two.)  "Miss  Phelps  says  of 
herself,"  observed  this  oracle,  "that  she  is 
fifty-six  years  old;  and  we  think  she  is  old 
enough  to  know  better  than  to  write  such  a 
story  as  this  !  " 

At  a  summer  place,  when  I  was  in  the  early 
fervors  of  the  art  of  making  a  home,  a  citizen 
was  once  introduced  to  me  at  his  own  request. 
I  have  forgotten  his  name,  but  remember  hav 
ing  been  told  that  he  was  "prominent."  He 
was  big,  red,  and  loud,  and  he  planted  himself 
with  the  air  of  a  man  about  to  demolish  his 
deadliest  foe. 

"  So  you  are  Miss  Phelps.  Well,  I  Ve  wanted 
to  meet  you.  I  read  a  piece  you  wrote  in  a 
magazine.  It  was  about  our  town.  It  did  not 
please  Me." 

12$ 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

I  bowed  with  the  interrogatory  air  which 
seemed  to  be  expected  of  me.  Being  just  then 
very  much  in  love  with  that  lovable  place,  I 
was  puzzled  with  this  accusation ;  and  quite 
unable  to  recall,  out  of  the  warm  flattery  which 
I  had  heaped  upon  the  town  in  cool  print,  any 
visible  cause  of  offense. 

r~  "You  said,"  pursued  my  accuser  angrily, 
"  that  we  had  odors  here.  You  said  our  town 
smelled  of  fish.  Now,  you  know,  we  get  so 
used  to  these  smells,  we  like  'em !  It  gave 
great  offense  to  the  community,  Madam.  And 
I  really  thought  at  one  time,  —  f eelin'  ran  so 
high,  —  I  thought  it  would  kill  the  sale  of  your 
book ! " 

From  that  day  to  this,  I  do  not  believe  the 
idea  has  visited  the  brain  of  this  estimable  per 
son  that  a  book  could  circulate  in  any  other 
spot  upon  the  map  than  within  his  native  town. 
This  delicious  bit  of  provincialism  served  to 
make  life  worth  living  for  many  a  long  day. 

There  was  fun  enough  in  this  sort  of  thing  to 
"keep  one  up,"  so  that  one  could  return  bravely 
to  the  chief  end  of  existence.     For  this  seemed 
for  many  years  to  be  nothing  less  and  little  else 
-than  the  exercise  of  those  faculties  called  forth 
by  the  wails  of  the  bereaved.     From  every  cor 
ner  of  the  civilized  globe  and  in  many  of  its 
languages  they  came  to  me  —  entreaties,  out- 
126 


AND    STILL   THE   GATES   AJAR 

pourings,  cries  of  agony,  mutterings  of  despair, 
breathings  of  the  gentle  hope  by  which  despair 
may  be  superseded ;  appeals  for  help  which 
only  the  Almighty  could  have  given  ;  demands 
for  light  which  only  Eternity  can  supply. 

A  man's  grief,  when  he  chooses  to  confide  it 
to  a  woman,  is  not  an  easy  matter  to  deal  with  ; 
its  dignity  and  its  pathos  are  never  to  be  for 
gotten  :  how  to  meet  it,  Heaven  only  teaches ; 
and  how  far  Heaven  taught  that  awed  and 
humble  girl  I  shall  never  know.  But  the 
women  —  oh,  the  poor  women !  I  felt  less 
afraid  to  answer  them.  Their  misery  seemed 
to  cry  in  my  arms  like  a  child  who  must  be 
comforted.  I  wrote  to  them  —  I  wrote  with 
out  wisdom  or  caution  or  skill,  only  with  the 
power  of  being  sorry  for  them,  and  the  wish 
to  say  so ;  and,  if  I  said  the  right  thing  or  the 
wrong  one,  whether  I  comforted  or  wearied, 
strengthened  or  weakened  —  that,  too,  I  shall 
not  know. 

Sometimes,  in  recent  years,  a  letter  comes  or 
a  voice  speaks  :  "  Do  you  remember  —  so  many 
years  ago  —  when  I  was  in  great  trouble  ? 
You  wrote  to  me."  And  I  am  half  ashamed 
that  I  had  forgotten.  But  I  bless  her  because 
she  remembers. 

But  when  I  think  of  the  hundreds  —  it  came 
into  the  thousands  —  of  such  letters  received, 
127 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

and  how  large  a  proportion  of  them  were  an 
swered,  my  heart  sinks.  How  is  it  possible 
that  one  should  not  have  done  more  harm  than 
good  by  that  unguided  sympathy  ?  If  I  could 
not  leave  the  open  question  to  the  Wisdom  that 
protects  and  overrules  well-meaning  ignorance, 
I  should  be  afraid  to  think  of  it.  For  many 
years  I  was  snowed  under  by  those  mourners' 
letters.  In  truth,  they  have  not  ceased  entirely 
yet,  though,  of  course,  their  visits  are  now 
irregular ;  for  the  book  will  soon  be  thirty  years 
of  age. 

I  am  so  often  asked  if  I  still  believe  the 
views  of  another  life  set  forth  in  "  The  Gates 
Ajar,"  that  I  am  glad  to  use  this  opportunity 
to  answer  the  question ;  though  indeed  I  have 
been  led  to  do  so  to  a  certain  extent  in  another 
place,  and  may  perhaps  be  pardoned  for  repeat 
ing  the  words  in  which  the  question  first  and 
most  naturally  answered  itself. 

"Those  appeals  of  the  mourning,  black  of 
edge  and  blurred  with  tears,  were  a  mass  high 
beneath  the  hand  and  heavy  to  the  heart. 
These  letters  had  the  terrible  and  unanswerable 
power  of  all  great,  natural  voices ;  and  '  the 
chief est  of  these '  are  love  and  grief.  Year 
upon  year  the  recipient  has  sat  dumb  before 
these  signs  of  human  misery  and  hope.  They 
have  rolled  upon  the  shore  of  life,  a  billow  of 
128 


AND    STILL  THE   GATES   AJAR 

solemn  inspiration.  I  have  called  them  the 
human  argument  for  faith  in  the  future  life, 
and  see  no  reason  for  amending  the  term." 

But  why  dwell  on  the  little  book  which  was 
only  the  trembling  organ-pipe  through  which 
the  music  thrilled  ?  Its  faults  have  long  since 
ceased  to  trouble,  and  its  friends  to  elate  me. 
Sometimes  one  seems  to  one's  self  to  be  the  ^ 
least  or  last  agency  in  the  universe  responsible 
for  such  a  work.  What  was  the  book  ?  Only 
an  outcry  of  nature ;  and  nature  answered  it. 
That  was  all.  And  nature  is  of  God,  and  is 
mighty  before  Him. 

Do  I  believe  in  the  "middle  march"  of  life, 
as  the  girl  did,  in  the  morning,  before  the  bat 
tle  of  the  day?  For  nature's  sake,  which  is 
for  God's  sake,  I  cannot  hesitate.  Useless  suf 
fering  is  the  worst  of  all  kinds  of  waste.  Un 
less  He  created  this  world  from  sheer  extrava 
gance  in  the  infliction  of  purposeless  pain,  there 
must  be  another  life  to  justify,  to  heal,  to  com 
fort,  to  offer  happiness,  to  develop  holiness. 
If  there  be  another  world,  and  such  a  one,  it 
will  be  no  theologic  drama,  but  a  sensible, 
wholesome  scene. 

The  largest  and  the  strongest  elements  of 
this   experimental   life   will    survive   its  weak 
est  and  smallest.     Love  is  "  the  greatest  thing 
in  the  world,"  and  love  will  claim  its  own  at 
129 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

last.  The  affection  which  is  true  enough  to 
live  forever,  need  have  no  fear  that  the  life 
to  come  will  thwart  it.  The  grief  that  goes  to 
the  grave  unhealed,  may  put  its  trust  in  unim- 
agined  joy  to  be.  The  patient,  the  uncomplain 
ing,  the  unselfish  mourner,  biding  his  time  and 
bearing  his  lot,  giving  more  comfort  than  he 
gets,  and  with  beautiful  willfulness  believing  in 
the  intended  kindness  of  an  apparently  harsh 
force  which  he  cannot  understand  —  may  come 
to  perceive  even  here,  that  Infinite  Power  and 
Mercy  are  one ;  and,  I  solemnly  believe,  is 
sure  to  do  so,  in  the  life  beyond,  where  "  God 
keeps  a  niche  in  heaven  to  hold  our  idols." 
130 


VII 

MRS.    STOWE  :   JAMES    T.    FIELDS 

ONE  preeminent  figure  moving  gently  for  a 
few  years  upon  the  Andover  stage,  I  had  al 
most  omitted  from  the  reminiscences  of  the 
Hill,  —  I  suppose  because  in  truth  she  never 
seemed  to  me  to  be  of  Andover,  or  its  life  akin 
to  hers.  I  refer  to  the  greatest  of  American 
women,  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe. 

To  the  stranger  visiting  Andover  for  a  day, 
there  will  long  be  pointed  out,  as  one  of  the 
"sights"  of  the  Hill,  the  house  occupied  by 
Mrs.  Stowe  during  the  time  of  her  husband's 
professorship  in  the  Seminary.  After  she  dis 
appeared  from  among  us,  that  home  of  genius^ 
met  a  varied  fate.  I  wonder,  do  houses  feel  I 
their  ascents  and  declines  of  fortune  as  dogs 
do,  or  horses  ?  One  sometimes  fancies  that 
they  may,  if  only  through  the  movement  of 
that  odic  force  whose  mysterious  existence  sci 
ence  cannot  deny,  and  speculation  would  not. 
Next  to  a  man's  book  or  his  child,  what  can  be 
so  invested  with  himself  as  the  house  he  lives 
in  ?  Saturated  with  humanity  as  they  are,  who 


CHAPTERS    FROM  A   LIFE 

knows  how  far  sentience  may  develop  under  ob 
servant  roofs  and  in  conscious  rooms  long  pos 
sessed  by  human  action  and  endurance  ?  \ 

Mrs.  Stowe's  house,  still  retaining  the  popu 
lar  name  of  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  became  for  a 
Awhile  a  club  devoted  to  the  honorable  ends  of 
boarding  theologues.  At  the  present  time  the 
Trustees'  hotel  is  in  the  building,  which  has 
suffered  many  dreary  practical  changes.  The 
house  is  of  stone,  and  in  the  day  of  its  distin 
guished  occupant  was  a  charming  place.  As  a 
house,  it  is  very  difficult ;  but  Mrs.  Stowe  has 
always  had  the  home-touch  in  a  beautiful  de 
gree. 

In  fact,  my  chief  impression  of  those  years 
when  we  had  the  rich  opportunity  of  her  vicinity 
consists  in  occasional  glimpses  of  lovely  interi 
ors,  over  which  presided  a  sweet  and  quiet  pres 
ence,  as  unlike  the  eidolon  which  Andover  Sem 
inary  seemed  to  have  created  for  itself  of  this 
great  and  gracious  lady,  as  a  spirit  is  unlike  an 
old-time  agitator.  To  tell  the  truth,  —  which 
perhaps  is  not  necessary  —  I  dimly  suspected 
then,  and  I  have  been  sure  of  it  since,  that  the 
privilege  of  neighborhood  was  but  scantily  ap 
preciated  in  Andover  in  the  case  of  this  emi 
nent  woman.  Why,  I  do  not  know.  She  gave 
no  offense,  that  I  can  recall,  to  the  peculiar 
preferences  of  the  place  ;  the  fact  that  she  was 
132 


MRS.   STOWE 

rumored  to  have  leanings  towards  the  Episco 
pal  Church  did  not  prevent  her  from  dutifully 
occupying  with  her  family  her  husband's  pew 
in  the  old  chapel ;  it  was  far  to  the  front,  and 
her  ecclesiastical  delinquencies  would  have  been 
only  too  visible,  had  they  existed.  A  tradition 
that  she  visited  the  theatre  in  Boston  when  she 
felt  like  it,  sometimes  passed  solemnly  from  lip 
to  lip  ;  but  this  is  the  most  serious  criticism 
upon  her  which  I  can  remember. 

I  have  since  found  suspicion  blossoming  into 
a  belief  that  the  vagueness  of  arithmetic  which 
led  to  an  insufficient  estimate  of  Mrs.  Stowe's 
value,  or  at  least  to  a  certain  bluntness  in  our 
sense  of  the  honor  which  she  did  to  Andover 
by  living  among  us,  sprung  from  the  fact  that 
she  was  a  woman. 

Andover  was  a  heavily  masculine  place.  She 
was  used  to  eminent  men,  and  to  men  who 
thought  they  were,  or  meant  to  be,  or  were 
thought  to  be  by  the  ladies  of  their  families, 
and  the  pillars  of  their  denomination.  At  the 
subject  of  eminent  women  the  Hill  had  not 
arrived.  I  have  sometimes  wondered  what 
would  have  been  the  fate  even  of  my  mother, 
had  she  lived  to  work  her  power  to  its  bloom. 
And  Mrs.  Stowe's  fame  was  clearly  a  fact  so 
apart  from  the  traditions  and  from  the  ideals, 
that  Andover  was  puzzled  by  it.  The  best  of 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

her  good  men  were  too  feudal  in  their  views 
of  women  in  those  days,  to  understand  a  life 
like  Mrs.  Stowe's.  It  should  be  remembered 
that  we  have  moved  on  since  then,  so  fast  and 
so  far,  that  it  is  almost  as  hard  now  for  us  to 
understand  the  perplexity  with  which  intelli 
gent,  even  instructed  men,  used  to  consider  the 
phenomenon  of  a  superior  woman,  as  it  was 
then  for  such  men  to  understand  such  a  woman 
at  all.  Let  us  offer  to  them  the  width  of  sym 
pathy  and  fineness  of  perception  which  they 
did  not  always  know  how  to  offer  to  the  woman. 
My  personal  remembrances  of  Mrs.  Stowe 
are  those  of  a  young  girl  whom  she  entertained 
at  intervals,  always  delightfully,  in  the  long 
parlor  running  the  width  of  the  stone  house, 
whose  deep  embrasured  window-seats  seemed 
to  me  only  less  wonderful  than  the  soft  and 
brightly-colored,  rather  worldly-looking  pillows 
with  which  these  attractive  nooks  were  gen 
erously  filled.  There  were  flowers  always,  and 
a  bower  of  ivy  made  summer  of  the  eternal 
Andover  winters  in  the  stone  house  ;  and  there 
were  merry  girls  and  boys,  —  Mrs.  Stowe  was 
the  most  unselfish  and  loving  of  mothers,  — and 
there  were  always  dogs  ;  big  and  little,  curly 
and  straight;  but  in  some  form,  dog-life  with 
its  gracious  reaction  on  the  gentleness  and 
kindness  of  family  life  abounded  in  her  house. 


MRS.  STOWE 

It  was  an  open,  hospitable  house,  human  and 
hearty  and  happy,  and  I  have  always  remem 
bered  it  affectionately. 

An  amusing  instance  of  the  spirit  of  the 
stone  house  comes  back  to  me  from  some  far 
away  day,  when  I  found  myself  schoolmate  to 
Mrs.  Stowe's  youngest  daughter.  This  little 
descendant  of  genius  and  of  philanthropy  was 
bidden  to  write  a  composition  —  an  order  which 
she  resolutely  refused  for  some  time  to  obey. 
But  the  power  above  her  persisted,  and  one 
day,  the  child  brought  in  a  slip  of  paper  a  few 
inches  long,  on  which  were  inscribed  these 
words  only :  "  Slavery  is  the  greatest  curse  of 
human  nature." 

"  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  was  not  written  in  the 
stone  house  at  Andover.  But  there  the  awful 
inscription  of  a  great  grief  was  cut  into  the 
quivering  flesh  and  blood  of  a  mother's  heart. 
The  sudden  and  violent  death  of  a  favorite  son 
—  which  made  of  "The  Minister's  Wooing^ 
an  immortal  outcry  to  mothers  bereaved  —  oc 
curred,  if  I  am  not  wrong,  while  Mrs.  Stowe 
was  among  us.  I  never  pass  the  house  with 
out  thinking  what  those jstone  walls  have  known 
and  kept  of  that, chrism  of  personal  anguish 
through  which  a  great  soul  passed  in  learning 
how  to  offer  consolation  to  the  suffering  of  the 
world. 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

One  of  the  prettiest  pictures  which  I  have 
of  Mrs.  Stowe  is  framed  in  the  everglades 
of  Florida.  Her  home  at  Magnolia  offered  a 
guest-room  in  which  one  could  pass  a  night  of 
such  quiet  as  Paradise  might  envy.  The  house, 
I  remember,  was  built  about  a  great  live-oak, 
and  the  trunk  of  the  tree  grew  into  the  room  ; 
the  walls  being  cleverly  adjusted  to  the  contour 
of  the  bark.  Through  the  open  windows  the 
leaves  drifted  silently,  falling  about  the  room, 
the  floor,  the  bed,  as  they  pleased.  One  slept 
like  a  hamadryad,  and  waked  like  a  bird  in  a 
bough. 

Into  this  nest  of  green  and  peace,  I  had  (I 
remember  it  with  shame  and  contrition)  the 
hardness  of  heart  and  bluntness  of  courtesy  to 
intrude  a  pile  of  proof-sheets.  It  was  my  first 
book  of  verses.  The  volume  was  in  press.  I 
was  in  misery  of  doubt  about  the  venture.  In 
the  State  of  Florida  my  hostess  was  the  only 
accessible  person  whose  judgment  could  help 
me  ;  and  fate  had  thrown  me  ' on  her  sweet 
charity  with  my  galleys.  The  publishers  at 
the  North,  a  thousand  miles  away,  were  hurry 
ing  me.  There  was  not  a  day  to  lose,  if  I  had 
made  a  grave  blunder ;  and  I  mercilessly  read 
the  verses  to  her,  beseeching  her  advice  and 
criticism. 

It  would  be  hard  to  forget  the  sweetness,  the 
136 


MRS.  STOWE 

patience,  and  the  frankness  with  which  she 
gave  herself  to  my  cruel  request.  I  remember 
how  she  curled  herself  up  on  the  bed  beside 
me,  like  a  girl,  with  her  feet  crossed  under 
her,  and  listened  gently.  The  live-oak  leaves 
fell  softly  about  us,  and  the  St.  John's  River 
showed  in  glimpses,  calm,  coffee-colored,  and 
indifferent,  between  the  boughs.  The  utter 
silence  of  a  Florida  wilderness  compassed  us. 
My  own  voice  sounded  intrusive  and  foreign  to 
me  as  I  read.  Nothing  could  exceed  her  kind 
ness  or  her  wisdom  as  a  critic.  I  had  made 
one  rather  serious  mistake  in  one  of  the  poems, 
—  a  fault  in  taste  which  I  had  overlooked. 
She  called  my  attention  to  it  so  explicitly,  yet 
so  delicately,  that  I  could  have  thanked  her 
with  tears.  "  A  sweeter  woman  ne'er  drew 
breath  "  than  she  was  to  me  that  day. 

The  last  time  that  I  saw  Mrs.  Stowe  was 
on  the  occasion  of  her  seventieth  birthday; 
when,  at  the  country  seat  of  Governor  and  Mrs. 
Claflin,  in  Newtonville,  her  publishers,  Messrs. 
Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company,  tendered  her 
a  reception,  —  I  think  she  called  it  a  birthday 
party. 

It  fell  to  me  to  go  out  to  the  breakfast  with 
Doctor  Holmes,  who  always  loved  and  appre 
ciated  Mrs.  Stowe,  and  who  seemed  to  enjoy 
himself  like  a  happy  boy  all  day.  His  tribute, 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

written  for  the  day,  was  one  of  the  best  of  his 
famous  occasional  poems ;  and  he  did  me  the 
honor  to  read  my  own  unimportant  verses  for 
me  —  a  thing  which  I  found  it  impossible  to 
do  for  myself  —  with  such  grace  and  fervor  as 
almost  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had  written  some 
thing  of  Doctor  Holmes's.  It  was  a  unique 
sensation ;  and,  though  one  of  the  most  hum 
bling  of  life,  yet  one  of  the  most  agreeable. 

Mrs.  Stowe's  appearance  that  day  —  one  of 
her  last,  I  think,  in  public  —  was  a  memorable 
one.  Her  dignity,  her  repose,  a  certain  dream 
iness  and  aloofness  of  manner  characteristic  of 
her,  blended  gently  with  her  look  of  peace  and 
unmistakable  happiness.  Crowded  with  honors 
as  her  life  had  been,  I  have  fancied  that  this, 
among  her  latest,  in  her  quiet  years,  and  so  full 
of  the  tenderness  of  personal  friendship,  had 
especial  meanings  to  her,  and  gave  her  deep 
pleasure.  Among  our  literary  people  no  one 
of  consequence  omitted  to  do  honor  to  the 
foremost  woman  of  America  :  there  were  pos 
sibly  one  or  two  exceptions,  of  the  school  which 
does  not  call  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  "  literature 
unless  it  is  obliged  to ;  but  they  were  scarcely 
missed. 

The  most  beautiful  story  which  I  ever  heard 
about  Mrs.  Stowe  I  have  asked  no  permission 
to  share  with  the  readers  of  these  papers,  and 
138 


MRS.  STOWE 

yet  I  feel  sure  that  no  one  who  loves  and 
honors  her  could  refuse  it ;  for  I  believe  that  if 
the  whole  of  it  were  told,  it  might  live  to  en 
hance  the  nobility  of  her  name  and  fame  as 
long  as  Uncle  Tom  himself.  It  was  told  me, 
as  such  things  go,  from  lip  to  lip  of  personal 
friends  who  take  pride  in  cherishing  the  sweet 
est  thoughts  and  facts  about  those  whom  they 
love  and  revere. 

During  the  latter  part  of  her  life  Mrs.  Stowe 
has  been  one  of  those  devout  Christian  believ 
ers  whose  consecration  takes  high  forms.  She 
has  placed  faith  in  prayer,  and  given  herself  to 
the  kind  of  dedication  which  exercises  and  cul 
tivates  it.  There  came  a  time  in  her  history 
when  one  who  was  very  dear  to  her  seemed 
about  to  sink  away  from  the  faith  in  which  she 
trusted,  and  to  which  life  and  sorrow  had  taught 
her  to  cling  as  only  those  who  have  suffered, 
and  doubted,  and  accepted,  can. 

This  prospect  was  a  crushing  grief  to  her, 
and  she  set  herself  resolutely  to  avert  the  ca 
lamity  if,  and  while,  she  could.  Letter  after 
letter  —  some  of  them  thirty  pages  long- 
found  its  way  from  her  pen  to  the  foreign  town 
in  which  German  rationalism  was  doing  its 
worst  for  the  soul  she  loved.  She  set  the  full 
force  of  her  intellect  intelligently  to  work  upon 
this  conflict.  She  read,  she  reasoned,  she  wrote, 


CHAPTERS    FROM  A  LIFE 

she  argued,  she  pleaded.  Months  passed  in 
a  struggle  whose  usefulness  seemed  a  pitiable 
hope,  to  be  frustrated  in  the  effort. 

Then  she  laid  aside  her  strong  pen,  and 
turned  to  her  great  faith.  As  the  season  of 
the  sacred  holiday  approached,  she  shut  herself 
into  her  room,  secluding  herself  from  all  but 
God,  and  prayed,  as  only  such  a  believer  —  as 
only  such  a  woman  —  may.  As  she  had  set 
the  full  force  of  her  intellect,  so  now  she  set 
the  full  power  of  her  faith  to  work  upon  her 
soul's  desire.  One  may  not  dwell  in  words 
upon  that  sacred  battle.  But  the  beautiful  part 
of  the  story,  as  I  have  been  told  it,  is,  that  a 
few  weeks  after  this  a  letter  reached  her,  say 
ing  only  :  "  At  Christmas  time  a  light  came  to 
me.  I  see  things  differently  now.  I  see  my 
way  to  accept  the  faith  of  my  fathers ;  —  and 
the  belief  in  Christianity  which  is  everything 
to  you  has  become  reasonable  and  possible  to 
me  at  last." 

Andover  is  but  twenty  miles  from  Boston, 
and  it  was  an  easy  slide  from  the  Hill  to  town 
life.  For  many  years  my  winters  were  practi 
cally  spent  among  Boston  friends.  Nothing, 
however,  can  ever  make  a  real  country  girl  into 
a  cockney  ;  and  my  tendency  towards  town  has 
never  been  a  law  of  gravitation.  I  cannot  re- 
140 


HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE 


JAMES   T.   FIELDS 

member  the  time  when  I  was  not  happy  to 
get  back  to  country  horizons ;  to  the  ice-storm 
on  the  heavily-hanging,  glittering  elms  ;  to  the 
blue  snow  that  succeeds  the  rose  of  a  clear, 
cold  sunset ;  to  the  etching  of  the  fine  twigs 
against  a  winter  sky  at  noon  ;  to  the  white 
powder  on  the  spruce  boughs,  and  the  deep 
color  of  the  pines ;  to  the  noble  brow  of  Wa- 
chusett  solemnly  greeting  me  from  its  distant 
watch  ;  to  the  peace  and  the  purity  of  unspotted 
drifts  and  snow-fields,  and  the  stillness  of  long 
nights  broken  only  by  the  starting  and  crack 
ing  of  ice  in  the  solid  crust  about  the  silent 
house;  or  even  to  the  roar  of  the  northwest 
gale,  straight  from  the  mountains,  unobstructed 
and  almighty,  thundering  against  the  quivering 
windows  like  the  soul  of  "a  strong,  wicked 
man"  (as  Blake  pictured  him)  set  adrift  in 
space  :  and  always  to  the  huge,  open  fires  such 
as  no  city  hearth  ever  knows,  generously  or 
namenting  the  furnace-heated  house  with  the 
glow  and  the  gladness  that  belong  only  to  the 
heart  of  unstinted  flame.  I  came  home  early 
and  often  (like  the  busy  voter),  and  the  soul 
of  the  true  suburban  who  cannot  long  look 
upon  town  as  a  place  to  "  stay,"  grew  in  me. 
I  can  remember  but  once  when  the  deprivations 
of  the  country  in  midwinter  gave  me  a  kind  of 
distaste  amounting  almost  to  horror,  and  like 
141 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A    LIFE 

most  of  our  strong  or  unnatural  aversions,  that 
was  pathological.  I  was  on  crutches  ;  and  An- 
dover  Hill  was  in  ice.  The  world  wore  a  mail 
of  frozen  fire  that  lasted  for  many  weeks.  The 
snow-plough  had  abandoned  the  battle  with  the 
sidewalks,  which  rolled  underfoot  with  broken 
icicles  writhing  upon  solid  ice. 

The  dignified  elms  whose  attitudes  were  not 
less  stately  in  January  than  in  June,  bent  like 
mutilated  gods  beneath  their  cruel  loads.  Their 
broken  boughs  and  mangled  branches  lay  frozen 
into  the  crust  all  over  the  Hill  — a  pitiable  ruin. 
To  this  day,  some  of  the  finest  trees  in  An- 
dover  have  not  recovered  from  the  devastation 
of  that  winter.  It  was  weeks  before  the  mercy 
of  the  thaw  befell  them  and  us.  Sometimes, 
then,  the  "  shut  in,"  glancing  at  the  world  of 
ice  which  she  dared  not  watch,  thought  with  a 
certain  Arctic  desolation  of  laughing  streets,  of 
the  sound  of  shovel  and  ice-pick  on  traversable 
pavements,  of  bright  interiors,  and  welcoming 
eyes,  and  mettlesome  conversation,  and  the 
little  physical  and  large  mental  luxuries  of  the 
town,  where  winter  is  but  a  pleasant  stage- 
scene  in  a  warm  theatre,  shifting  in  its  turn 
among  the  other  diversions  of  life. 

Among  the  charming  homes  towards  which 
my  good  fortune  led  me  in  those  years,  were  a 
few  especially  known  in  Boston  for  their  grace- 
142 


JAMES   T.   FIELDS 

ful  power  in  attracting  distinguished  guests. 
Of  the  friends  who  presided  over  these  centres 
of  delightful  entertainment,  all  but  one1  are 
yet  living  :  it  is  therefore  scarcely  permitted 
me  —  excepting  in  his  case  —  to  put  my  affec 
tionate  debt  in  words. 

So  much  has  been  written  of  Mr.  Fields,  and 
his  interesting  personality  is  still  so  well  re 
membered,  that  perhaps  I  have  little  to  add 
that  is  new  to  the  appreciation  in  which  he  is 
yet  held.  He  was  a  man  not  always  under 
stood  ;  sometimes  a  little  envied  ;  but  widely  be 
loved.  Perhaps  no  man  in  our  country  and  in 
our  times  has  commanded  more  personal  friend 
ships  with  valuable  natures.  His  position  at 
the  head  of  one  of  the  leading  publishing  houses 
of  the  land  brought  him,  of  course,  into  fre 
quent  relation  with  selected  people.  This  great 
house,  which  has  always  aimed  to  publish  litera 
ture,  owes  much  of  its  position  and  power  to  his 
personality.  It  seems  to  me  —  I  knew  him  well 

—  fully  as  remarkable  a  personality  now,  at  this 
distance  of  time,  as  I  thought  it  when,  as  a 
frightened  young  author,  I  first  accepted  Mrs. 
Fields's  hospitality,  and  the  friendship  of  both. 

As   a   publisher,  his   courtesy  amounted   to 

1  This  was  written  before  the  recent  death  of  Mrs.  Claflin, 

—  a  brilliant  and  gracious  hostess,  a  dear  and  cherished 
friend. 

143 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

beneficence.  It  used  often  to  be  said  of  him, 
that  Mr.  Fields  could  refuse  a  manuscript  and 
send  a  rejected  author  away  happier  than  any 
other  man  could  by  accepting  it.  He  had  one 
of  the  kindest  hearts  I  ever  knew ;  and  his 
good-will  to  men  was  a  fountain,  springing  up 
to  continual  life.  From  the  first  day  when  the 
letter  about  "The  Gates  Ajar"  came  to  An- 
dover,  — that  pretty,  personal  letter,  not  left  to 
any  secretary  to  write  for  him,  — telling  a  hope 
less  girl  that  "the  book  was  moving  grandly," 
I  received  nothing  but  good  measure  from  a 
publisher  and  a  friend,  whose  memory  will  al 
ways  stand  apart  to  me  as  that  of  one  of  the 
valuable  influences  of  my  life.  I  am  but  one 
of  many  who  would  say  as  much,  and  more, 
than  this.  After  his  death,  the  tributes  which 
poured  in  would  have  astonished  those  who 
only  knew  Mr.  Fields  as  a  man  of  the  world,  a 
gay  converser,  a  delightful  host,  a  connoisseur 
in  letters,  and  a  distinguished  publisher. 

"  He  rendered  me  a  great  service."  "  In  the 
darkest  hour  of  my  life,  he  came,  giving  light  and 
hope."  "He  was  to  me,  as  to  so  many  others, 
the  helpful  friend  when  I  most  needed  help. 
Such  men  are  the  heralds  of  the  Millennium." 
"His  mind,"  said  Doctor  Holmes,  "was  as  hos 
pitable  as  his  roof ;  whifh  accepted  famous  writ 
ers  and  quiet  friends  alike,  as  if  it  had  been  their 
144 


JAMES   T.   FIELDS 

own."  Whittier,  who  had  known  Mr.  Fields 
for  forty  years,  wrote  to  me  of  him  in  these 
words.  "  He  loved  much,  pitied  much,  and 
never  hated.  He  was  Christ-like  in  sympathy 
and  kindness,  and  in  doing  good.  My  turn  will 
soon  come.  God  grant  I  may  meet  it  with  half 
his  cheerfulness  and  patience." 

It  was  written  of  him  long  ago :  "  Society 
will  pass  on  '  Mr.  Fields' s  stories  '  for  years  to 
come ;  but  when  these  are  forgotten,  silent 
men  and  women  will  cherish  their  sacred  share 
of  Mr.  Fields's  kindness." 

One  of  his  favorite  dinner-table  stories  was 
of  the  man  who  was  "  a  firm  friend  to  every 
one  who  did  not  need  a  friend."  His  laughing 
eye  lay  in  wait  to  see  if  one  would  tumble  into 
his  little  trap,  and  its  merry  respect  for  one's 
self-protecting  intellect,  if  one  perceived  the 
net,  was  as  refreshing  as  after-dinner  coffee. 

One  of  the  prettiest  stories  I  ever  heard 
about  Mr.  Fields,  I  think,  may  have  been  al 
ready  told  in  his  memoirs  ;  but  I  am  sure  I 
shall  not  be  forbidden  to  recall  it  here. 

On  one  of  his  lecture  tours  at  the  West,  in  a 
small  town,  an  inexperienced  young  person  had 
engaged  him  without  suitable  advertisements  or 
arrangements.  It  was  a  bitter  night,  and  the 
audience  was  so  scanty  that  the  poor  young 
man  who,  presumably,  had  not  a  dollar  where- 
145 


CHAPTERS  FROM  A  LIFE 

with  to  meet  his  liabilities,  was  overcome  with 
anguish.  Mr.  Fields,  used  to  the  best  audi 
ences  in  America,  exhibited  no  discomfort,  but 
quietly  took  the  young  manager  apart,  released 
him  from  all  pecuniary  obligation  to  the  lec 
turer,  and  inquired  the  extent  of  his  indebted 
ness  for  all  other  expenses.  These  were  quietly 
met  out  of  the  lecturer's  own  pocket ;  and  that 
young  man  went  away  adoring. 

I  remember  one  instance  which,  -undoubt 
edly,  was  but  one  of  many  like  it,  never  brought 
to  the  knowledge  of  his  friends,  where  Mr. 
Fields' s  observant  eye  discovered  a  well-known 
author  under  one  of  the  lapses  of  fortune  so 
common  in  our  struggling  calling,  —  sicky  neg 
lected,  and  poor  past  the  edge  of  want. '.  The 
publisher  hunted  up  the  poor  fellow,  made  a 
call  of  courtesy,  talked  a  little  in  his  cheerful 
way5  and  left.  But  that 'afternoon  came  to  the 
sufferer  the  proceeds -of  his  visitor's  last  lecture. 
"  I  have  just  cashed  the  check,"  -wrote  the 
happy-natured  Samaritan,  "  and  am  convinced 
the  bills  are  counterfeit.  I  have  no  kind  of  use 
for  them.  Do  get  them  off  my  hands." 

Mr.  Fields  was  a  man  of  marked  chivalry  of 
nature,  and,  at  a  time  when  it  was  not  fashion 
able  to  help  the  movements  for  the  elevation  of 
women,  his  sympathy  was  distinct,  fearless,  and 
faithful.  In  a  few  instances  we  knew  and  he 
146 


JAMES   T.   FIELDS 

knew  that  this  fact  deprived  him  of  the  posses 
sion  of  certain  public  honors  which  would  other 
wise  have  been  offered  him. 

He  advocated  the  political  advancement  of 
our  sex,  coeducation,  and  kindred  movements, 
without  any  of  that  apologetic  murmur  so  com 
mon  among  the  half-hearted  or  the  timid.  His 
fastidious  and  cultivated  literary  taste  was  sensi 
tive  to  the  position  of  women  in  letters.  He 
was  incapable  of  that  literary  snobbishness  which 
undervalues  a  woman's  work  because  it  is  a 
woman's.  A  certain  publishing  enterprise  which 
threatened  to  treat  of  eminent  men  came  to  his 
notice.  He  quickly  said  :  "  The  time  has  gone 
by  for  that !  Men  and  women !  Men  and 
women  /" 

"When  the  war  is  over,"  he  said  to  Mrs. 
Livermore,  when  she  appealed  to  him  for  some 
help  (which  he  generously  gave)  in  behalf  of 
the  Sanitary  Commission,  "you  must  give  us 
a  book  of  your  experience,  and  show  us  the 
heavenly  side  of  the  War." 

I  remember  one  day  after  his  mortal  illness 
was  upon  him,  that  I  chanced  to  be  passing 
through  the  hall,  as  he  was  preparing  to  go  out. 
He  was  too  weak  to  put  on  his  own  overcoat, 
and  he  was  obliged  to  ask  a  servant  to  do  it  for 
him.  I  was  struck  with  the  manner  in  which 
he  did  this  :  "  Lisa  "  -  he  said  gently,  "  I  am 
147 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 

afraid  I  must  trouble  you."  Any  thoughtful 
gentleman  might  have  said  as  much  ;  but  how 
many  would  have  given  a  servant  an  order  in 
such  a  tone  as  his  ?  It  is  not  possible  to  repro 
duce  the  delicacy  and  chivalry  of  it ;  as  if,  be 
cause  she  was  a  woman,  he  would  have  spared 
her  that  trifling,  personal  service. 

I  thought  of  this  when  I  heard  recently  the 
testimony  of  a  refined  young  woman  who,  to 
aid  herself  in  her  education,  had  taken  service 
in  a  New  York  family,  determined  to  try  the 
experiment  of  "lady  help,"  of  which  the  em 
ployer  talks  so  much,  and  concerning  which 
the  employee  is  often  so  mysteriously  silent. 
"I  left  the  situation,"  she  said.  "The  gentle 
men  of  the  family  came  in  and  handed  me  their 
dripping  umbrellas  on  a  wet  day  without  a 
glance  or  a  word  —  not  as  if  I  were  a  human 
being  — just  as  if  I  had  been  an  umbrella  stand. 
I  could  not  bear  it." 

Bryant  said  of  Mr.  Fields  that  no  one  could 
impress  upon  the  people  of  this  country  so  well 
as  he  the  value  and  importance  of  the  study  of 
English  literature.  This  I  believe  to  have  been 
no  exaggerated  view  of  the  usefulness  and 
quality  of  his  lectures  and  writings.  Personal 
acquaintance  with  him  was  an  intellectual  privi 
lege,  of  which  it  is  impossible  to  speak  otherwise 
than  gratefully. 

148 


JAMES  T.   FIELDS 

My  individual  debt  to  Mr.  Fields,  in  respect  to 
my  own  work,  is  one  which  I  cannot  and  would 
not  omit  to  acknowledge.  He  often  helped 
me  about  my  titles,  and  one  of  the  best  ever 
given  to  any  book  of  mine  —  "  Men,  Women, 
and  Ghosts" — was  of  his  creation.  In  his 
fine  literary  judgment  I  had  great  confidence, 
and  would  have  accepted  almost  any  criticism 
from  him  trustfully.  But  perhaps  his  quick 
intuition  perceived  that  I  should  be  too  easily 
disheartened,  for  I  remember  almost  exclusively 
the  pleasant,  the  hopeful,  the  appreciative  words 
with  which  he  stimulated  my  courage  and  my 
work. 

I  recall  an  occasion  when  I  had  ventured  into 
an  entirely  new  avenue  of  effort,  and  was  in 
that  chaos  succeeding  work  and  preceding  pub 
lication,  which  one  may  call  the  author's  abyss, 
—  so  hopeless  was  I  of  the  success  of  my  un 
dertaking.  How  did  he  know  ?  for  I  had  not 
said  this  to  any  person ;  but  before  the  article 
came  out,  while  it  was  yet  in  press,  swiftly 
came  the  little  note :  *•'  A  better  paper  never 
appeared  in  this  or  any  other  magazine  !  "  I 
held  up  my  head  and  breathed  again,  until  that 
dreaded  and  dreadful  number  of  the  "  Atlantic  " 
had  gone  by. 

I  was  once  introduced  by  a  clever  man  to  a 
gentleman  in  these  words,  —  "  Let  me  present 
149 


CHAPTERS    FROM    A   LIFE 

to  you  one  of  your  natural  foes:  he  is  a  pub 
lisher."  Such  kindness  and  thoughtfulness 
as  that  of  Mr.  Fields  endeared  the  publisher 
to  his  authors,  and  made  of  them  his  natural 
friends. 

His  sense  of  delicacy  in  literary,  as  in  all 
other  matters,  was  of  a  high  and  fine  quality. 
I  remember  once  dining  at  his  table  with  a 
public  singer  who,  though  a  woman  of  irre 
proachable  character  and  position,  had  acquired 
a  little  something  slipshod  in  her  way  of  talk 
ing  ;  of  the  sort  that  is  common  among  people 
of  the  stage.  She  used  a  certain  expression,  — 
perfectly  simple  and  suitable  to  her  view,  —  but 
one  which  we  were  not  accustomed  to  hear  at 
that  table.  The  face  of  the  host,  a  moment 
before  shining  with  geniality  and  fun,  froze 
instantly.  The  perfect  silence  in  which  that 
unfortunate  word  was  received,  was  the  only 
rebuke  possible  under  the  circumstances  ;  but 
it  was  enough.  The  guest  understood,  I  think  ; 
though  she  looked  as  much  astonished  as  em 
barrassed. 

Before  "The  Story  of  Avis  "  went  to  press, 
I  read  the  manuscript  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Fields ; 
it  was  the  only  time,  I  believe,  that  I  imposed 
such  a  burden  on  these  good  friends.  When  I 
came  to  the  chapter  where  Ostrander  sits  late 
at  the  piano  with  Barbara,  while  his  sick  wife 
150 


JAMES   T.    FIELDS 

sleeps  upstairs,  Mr.  Fields  interrupted  me  with 
an  expression  of  recoil.  "  Oh,  no  !  "  he  cried  ; 
"  no,  no  !  Not  that !  Don't  introduce  any 
thing  of  that  kind !  Keep  the  story  above 
that ! "  He  was  appeased  when  I  read  on, 
and  he  learned  that  the  worst  of  the  situation 
consisted  in  the  fact  that  Ostrander  did  take 
Barbara's  hand.  But  I  think  his  heart  went 
back  grudgingly  to  the  tale  which  he  had  feared 
was  about  to  descend  into  a  moral  quagmire ; 
and  that  it  took  him  some  time  to  recover  his 
trust  in  it.  In  the  end,  I  hope  he  did. 

His  was  a  rich  life,  and  his  a  rare  home. 
There  has  been  no  other  in  America  quite  like 
it.  Those  of  us  who  received  its  hospitality 
recall  its  inspiration  among  the  treasures  of  our 
lives.  We  think  of  the  peaceful  library  into 
which  the  sunset  over  the  Charles  looked  deli 
cately,  while  the  "best  things"  of  thought 
were  given  and  taken  by  the  finest  and  strong 
est  minds  of  the  day  in  a  kind  of  electric  inter 
play,  which  makes  by  contrast  a  pale  affair  of 
the  word  conversation  as  we  are  apt  to  use  it. 
We  recall  the  quiet  guest-chamber,  apart  from 
the  noise  of  the  street,  and  lifted  far  above  the 
river ;  that  room  opulent  and  subtle  with  the 
astral  shapes  of  past  occupants,  —  Longfellow, 
WThittier,  Dickens,  Thackeray,  Mrs.  Stowe, 
Kingsley,  and  the  rest  of  their  high  order,  - 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

and  always  resounding  softly  to  the  fine  ear 
with  the  departed  tread  of  Hawthorne,  who 
used  to  pace  the  floor  on  sleepless  nights.  We 
remember  the  separation  from  paltriness,  and 
from  superficial  adjustments,  which  that  schol 
arly  and  gentle  atmosphere  commanded.  We 
remember  the  master  of  their  abode  of  thought 
and  graciousness,  as  "  Dead,  he  lay  among  his 
books  ; "  and  wish  that  we  had  it  in  our  power 
to  portray  him  as  he  was. 
152 


VIII 

LONGFELLOW  :    WHITTIER  :    HOLMES 


OF   our  great   pentarchy   of    poets, 
Lowell  —  I  never  met  ;  and  of  another  —  Em-\ 
erson  —  my  personal  knowledge,  as  I  have  said,  J 
was  but  of  the  slightest.     With  the  remaining 
three  I  had  differing  degrees  of  friendship  ;  and 
to  speak  of  them  is  still  a  privilege  full  of  affec 
tionate  sadness. 

Longfellow  I  knew  less  well  than  the  others  ; 
but  my  few  memories  of  him  are  as  mellow 
and  fair  as  yesterday's  October  day  melting  on 
the  great  horizon  beyond  my  study  windows.  I 
think  the  first  time  that  I  saw  him  was  at  Mr. 
Fields'  s  ;  my  impressions  are  that  he  was  ill 
that  day,  and  a  little  under  the  reflection  of 
physical  suffering  ;  and  that  I  thought  at  the 
time  that  this  fact  accounted  for  the  peculiar 
gentleness  of  his  personality.  Afterwards,  when 
I  saw  him  in  happier  conditions,  I  learned  that 
this  was  no  pathological  incident,  but  that  his 
atmosphere  was  like  that  of  the  mystic  lands 
"where  it  is  always  afternoon."  He  remains 
in  my  thought  as  one  of  the  gentlest  men 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A    LIFE 

whom  I  ever  knew.  There  was  a  certain  in 
nate  serenity,  quite  apart  from  the  quality  of 
his  manner ;  a  manner  which  had  the  repose  of 
something  that  it  seems  almost  underbred  to 
call  the  finest  breeding,  because  it  went  beyond 
and  below  and  above  that.  I  heard  Emerson 
once  say  of  some  one  —  I  cannot  recall  of 
whom  —  that  he  was  "  expressed  to  gold-leaf." 
Mr.  Longfellow  could  not  be  denned  in  this 
phrase,  only  because  he  was  too  genuine  to  ap 
propriate  it.  His  endowment  of  personal  cul 
ture  was  so  generous  as  to  give  one  in  contact 
with  it  the  keenest  delight.  He  seemed  to  me 
a  man  cultivated  almost  to  the  capacity  of  his 
nature.  It  was  inconceivable  that  he  could, 
under  any  stress,  slip  into  rudeness  of  view, 
or  do  the  incomplete  thing.  He  was  finished 
well-nigh  to  elaboration.  Yet,  as  I  say,  he 
stopped  this  side  of  gold-leaf.  For  he  had  re 
tained  his  sincerity  almost  to  the  point  of  nai'v- 
ete"  ;  he  had  preserved  the  spontaneity  which 
a  lesser  man  under  his  attrition  with  the  world 
would  have  lost. 

I  was  once  in  a  box  at  the  theatre  in  a  com 
pany  of  friends  of  whom  he  was  one.  The 
play  was  a  simple  affair  —  Hazel  Kirke  :  there 
was  nothing  great,  historic,  or  perhaps  in  a 
strict  sense  artistic  about  it ;  it  was  the  old 
story  of  a  Scotch  marriage,  separated  lovers,  a 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW 


LONGFELLOW 

wronged  girl,  and  a  heartbroken  father.  There 
was  a  scene  where  Hazel  followed  her  blind 
father  about  the  room  upon  her  knees,  pressing 
the  hem  of  his  long  coat  to  her  lips ;  he  mean 
while  being  ignorant  of  her  presence,  and  re 
maining  so  till  she  had  disappeared.  I  turned, 
indiscreetly  enough,  and  looked  at  the  poet 
where  he  sat,  a  little  in  the  shadow  of  our  box. 
I  was  astonished  to  see  the  tears  —  not  gather 
ing,  but  falling  down  his  face.  He  made  no 
effort  to  conceal  or  to  check  them :  indeed,  I 
think  he  was  unconscious  of  them.  He  noticed 
none  of  us  ;  but  gave  his  heart  up  to  the  great 
human  passion  of  the  little  play  with  a  sim 
plicity  and  genuineness  touching  to  see. 

I  remember,  at  another  time,  lunching  at  his 
house  on  an  occasion  when  the  guest  of  honor 
was  a  great  actress  of  the  higher  caste.  She 
was  not  an  American  ;  and,  thinking  to  interest 
her,  at  our  request,  Mr.  Longfellow  read  aloud 
a  poem  of  his,  which  treated  of  her  own  country, 
and  of  its  struggles  for  a  freedom  at  that  time 
unattained.  When  he  had  finished  the  reading, 
he  turned,  and  found  her  in  tears.  I  know  it 
occurred  to  me  at  the  time  that  an  actress  of 
her  resources  might  have  spared  him  that ;  but 
probably  she,  too,  was  genuine  when  she  could 
be.  At  all  events,  the  lady  wept.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  tone  and  manner  with  which 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

he  turned  towards  her.  "  Oh  !  "  he  cried,  "  I 
meant  to  give  you  happiness !  —  And  I  have 
given  you  pain  ! "  His  accent  on  the  word 
"pain"  was  like  the  smart  of  a  wound.  Out 
of  strength  came  sweetness,  and  his  unspoiled 
genius  had  preserved  the  simple  reality  of  a 
kind  heart. 

The  finest  tribute  which  I  ever  heard  offered 
to  Longfellow  was  one  which  may  not  have 
found  its  way  into  print ;  for  it  did  not  come 
from  the  great  of  the  earth,  claiming  their  own 
and  revering  him.  He  had  his  due  of  that, 
in  life  and  in  death.  It  would  have  been  an 
honor  to  statesmen  or  to  kings  to  be  guests  at 
the  poet's  table.  But  what  sweeter  thing  was 
ever  said  of  him  than  this  ?  "If  there  is  any 
person  in  Cambridge,  or  in  Boston,  whom  he 
knows  to  be  in  greater  need  than  any  other,  of 
social  kindness  ;  any  one  obscure,  overlooked, 
unknown,  and  friendless,  —  that  is  the  person 
you  are  sure  to  find  invited  to  Mr.  Longfel 
low's  house." 

Mr.  Longfellow  was  very  kind  to  me,  in 
certain  opinions  which  he  expressed  about 
some  of  my  writings  not  agreeable  to  all  my 
readers.  At  the  time  "  The  Story  of  Avis  " 
came  out,  I  received  from  him  a  few  letters 
which  were  the  greatest  possible  comfort  to 
me ;  for,  though  I  had  not  expected  that  book 
156 


LONGFELLOW 

to  have  a  wide  circle  of  friends,  yet  I  did  hope 
in  some  measure  to  atone  by  their  quality  for 
their  quantity. 

Even  in  autobiography  I  could  not  bring 
myself  to  reprint  those  letters  so  far  as  they 
dealt  with  my  book ;  but  the  fact  that  he  un 
derstood  my  favorite  heroine  where  smaller 
men  might  not,  or  did  not,  has  been  one  of 
the  pleasantest  bits  of  subconsciousness  in  the 
life  of  a  writer  who  has  had  her  share  of  mis 
apprehension  and  critical  abuse.  I  have,  in 
fact,  never  met  any  other  man  who  showed, 
from  the  author's  point  of  view,  such  a  marvel 
ous  intuition  in  the  comprehension  of  an  un 
usual  woman  ;  or  of  what  the  author  of  "  Avis  " 
tried  to  do,  in  relating  her  history.  "The 
Story  of  Avis  "  was  a  woman's  book,  hoping 
for  small  hospitality  at  the  hands  of  men. 

Mr.  Longfellow  came  but  once  to  my  home 
on  Gloucester  Harbor ;  but  on  that  occasion 
I  had  the  especial  pleasure  of  pointing  out 
to  him  the  reef  of  "  Norman's  Woe ;  "  which, 
though  he  had  wrecked  the  schooner  Hesperus, 
and  broken  half  our  hearts  upon  it,  he  had 
singularly  enough  never  seen  (I  think  he  said) 
before. 

I  remember  one  dull,  cold  day  —  it  was  a 
Sunday  —  when,  being  entertained  at  the  home 
of  Governor  and  Mrs.  Claflin,  I  found  Mr. 


CHAPTERS  FROM  A  LIFE 

Whittier  also  a  guest.  The  suggestion  arose 
that  we  should  drive  out  to  see  Mr.  Long 
fellow.  This  we  did  ;  —  Mr.  Whittier,  Mrs. 

,  and   myself.      Mr.   Whittier  was   at   his 

brightest  on  that  drive  to  Cambridge  ;  full  of 
good  stories,  and  good  appreciation  of  them  ; 
more  than  usually  cheerful,  and  inclined  to 
talk  happily.  We  drove  up  to  Longfellow's 
door  ;  there  seemed  an  unusual  silence  about 
the  calm  and  gentle  place.  Mr.  Whittier 
went  on  alone  and  rang  the  bell.  It  was  our 
purpose  to  remain  in  the  carriage,  I  think,  leav 
ing  the  two  poets  to  themselves  undisturbed 
by  our  smaller  personalities.  We  were,  there 
fore,  astonished  to  see  Mr.  Whittier  returning 
in  a  moment.  He  ran  down  the  steps  and 
sprang  in  with  excitement,  hitting  his  tall  hat, 
I  remember,  on  the  carriage  door,  and  entirely 
unconscious  that  he  had  done  so.  He  was 
more  agitated  than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 

"  Longfellow  is  sick !  "  he  cried,  "  very  sick  ! 
They  are  very  anxious."  He  leaned  back  on 
the  carriage  cushions,,  much  perturbed.  "  It 
is  a  long  time  since  I  have  seen  him !  "  he 
said  drearily.  His  agitation  remained.  The 
drive  back  to  Boston  was  a  gloomy  one.  His 
vivacity  was  quite  extinguished.  He  scarcely 
spoke  to  either  of  us  all  the  way  ;  but  stared 
solemnly  out  of  the  window  with  eyes  that 
158 


WHITTIER 

seemed  to  see  nothing  nearer  than  the  world 
to  which  his  great  friend  was  called.  Every 
one  who  knew  him  can  understand  what  his 
wonderful  eyes  must  have  been  to  look  upon  at 
such  a  time.  We  rode  home,  and  he  went  at 
once  to  his  room;  where  his  hostess  always 
decreed  that  he  should  be  sheltered  from  all 
possible  intrusion.  Longfellow  died,  if  I  am 
correct  about  it,  two  days  after.  To  this  day, 
I  seem  to  see  him  passing  on,  through  the 
seer's  look  in  Whittier's  eyes. 

"  It  was  a  disappointment,"  he  wrote,  "  not 
to  be  able  to  see  Longfellow  then,  and  much 
more  after  his  death ;  but  I  am  glad  I  went 
on  that  last  Sabbath,  and  that  thee  was  with 
me.  .  .  .  Ah,  well !  as  Wordsworth  asked, 
after  commemorating  the  friends  who  had  left 
him  :  l  Who  next  shall  fall  and  disappear  ? '  I 
await  the  answer  with  awe  and  solemnity,  and 
yet  with  unshaken  trust  in  the  mercy  of  the 
All  Merciful." 

Whittier  was  a  shy  and  scanty  visitor ;  and 
a  new  interior  was  an  insurmountable  trouble 
to  him  in  his  later  years.  I  think  he  culti 
vated  in  himself  a  kind  of  chronic  expectation 
of  sometime  fulfilling  his  conditional  promise 
to  come  and  see  me  ;  but  in  point  of  fact  he 
never  did.  I  saw  him  at  the  houses  of  one  or 
two  old  friends  in  town,  where  he  had  acquired 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

a  habit  of  flitting  in  and  out ;  or  else  at  his 
own  home.  And  he  wrote,  when  he  could. 
Sometimes  long  silence  fell  between  the  let 
ters.  Sometimes  they  succeeded  each  other 
quickly.  This  was  as  it  happened.  To  me, 
my  broken  acquaintance  with  him  was  one  of 
the  inspirations  of  my  life. 

He  was  full  of  frolic,  in  a  gentle  way  ;  no 
one  of  the  world's  people  ever  had  a  keener 
sense  of  humor.  From  every  interview  with 
him  one  carried  away  a  good  story,  or  a  sense 
of  having  had  a  good  time  :  he  never  darkened 
the  day,  or  shadowed  the  heart.  He  inspirited. 
He  invigorated.  "  I  like,"  he  wrote  to  a  friend, 
"  the  wise,  Chinese  proverb  :  '  You  cannot  pre 
vent  the  birds  of  sadness  from  flying  over  your 
head,  but  you  may  prevent  them  from  stopping 
to  build  their  nests  in  your  hair ! ' ' 

With  what  boyish  delight  he  absorbed  a 
fresh  anecdote,  if  it  had  the  right  ring  to  it, 
and  how  tenderly  he  encouraged  the  best  of 
the  old  ones !  Most  of  the  more  amusing  in 
cidents  of  his  personal  experience  have  been 
long  ago  published  by  the  friends  with  whom 
he  used  to  share  them.  Perhaps  the  story 
about  Lucy  Larcom  is  one  of  them  :  but  I 
venture  to  repeat  it,  as  one  which  has  vividly 
stayed  by  me. 

A  caller,  one  of  "the  innumerable  throng 
160 


WHITTIER 

that  moves  "  to  the  doors  of  the  distinguished, 
there  to  indulge  the  weak  curiosity  of  an  igno 
rance  too  pitiable  to  be  angry  with,  made  him 
self  troublesome  one  day  in  the  poet's  home  at 
Amesbury. 

"  I  have  come,  Sir,"  he  said  pompously, 
"  to  take  you  by  the  hand.  I  have  long  wished 
to  know  the  author  of  '  Hannah  binding 
Shoes  ! ' 

Now  Lucy  Larcom  happened  to  be  sitting, 
in  her  serene  fashion,  silently  by  the  window 
at  that  time  ;  and  Mr.  Whittier  turned  towards 
her  with  the  courtly  bow  into  which  the  Quaker 
poet's  simple  manner  could  bend  so  regally, 
when  he  chose. 

"  I  am  happy,"  replied  Mr.  Whittier,  waving 
his  hand  towards  the  lady  in  the  window,  "  to 
have  the  opportunity  to  present  thee  to  the 
author  of  that  admirable  poem  —  Lucy  Lar 
com  !  " 

It  was  one  of  Mr.  Whittier's  laughable  rem 
iniscences  of  anti-slavery  days,  when  he  was 
a  free  soil  candidate  for  Congress,  that  he  was 
charged  by  political  enemies  with  "  ill-treating 
his  wife  "  ! 

For  so  gentle  a  man  Mr.  Whittier  was  a 
very  keen  lance  in  argument.  A  man  who 
prided  himself  on  being  a  disbeliever  in  Chris 
tianity  once  obtruded  his  views  on  Mr.  Whit- 
161 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

tier  in  a  blatant  manner ;  enforcing  the  asser 
tion  that  there  was  no  truth  in  the  doctrine  of 
immortality,  because  he  knew  that  he  had, 
himself,  no  soul.  "  Friend,"  replied  the  poet, 
with  rippling  eyes,  "  I  quite  agree  with  thee. 
I  am  ready  to  admit  that  thee  has  no  soul. 
But  speak  for  thyself,  friend,  speak  for  thy 
self  !  " 

As  I  knew  Mr.  Whittier  in  his  later  years, 
my  impressions  of  his  life  are  those  of  its  most 
lonely  period.  With  heartache  for  which  there 
are  no  words,  I  used  to  come  away  sometimes, 
from  glimpses  of  its  deep,  inward  desolation. 
Friends  in  full  measure  he  had  ;  and  every 
thing  possible  was  done  in  his  descending 
years,  by  those  who  had  the  nearest  right  to 
minister  to  him,  to  give  him  comfort.  But  his 
solitude  went  too  deep  for  the  surface  rela 
tions  of  life  to  fathom.  Illness,  and  deafness, 
and  the  imperfect  use  of  his  eyes  increased  it 
heavily.  He  could  read  but  very  little,  and 
could  write  less. 

His  home  at  Danvers  was  a  pleasant  one, 
full  of  creature  comforts,  and  womanly  kind 
liness  ;  but  the  New  England  winter  pressed 
heavily  about  it. 

"  How  do  you  spend  the  days  ? "  I  asked 
once,  upon  a  bitter  afternoon,  when  I  had 
gone  over  from  Andover  to  see  him  for  an 
162 


WHITTIER 

hour.  He  glanced  over  my  head  into  the 
snow-storm.  His  face  was  not  dreary;  but 
wore  one  of  its  gravest  looks. 

"  Oh,"  he  said  patiently,  "  I  play  with  the 
dogs ;  or  I  go  out  and  see  the  horses.  And 
then  I  talk  to  Phoebe.  —  And  I  go  into  my 
study,  and  sit  awhile." 

"  There  is  always  some  one  to  talk  to,"  he 
said,  in  his  gentle,  grateful  way ;  he  spoke  as 
if  this  fact  were  an  unusual  privilege. 

One  must  have  spent  more  than  one  invalid 
winter  in  a  New  England  village,  to  under 
stand  in  the  least  what  such  isolation  was  to  a 
man  of  his  gifts  and  social  instincts,  and  in  the 
deepening  solitude  of  old  age.  Yet  nothing 
could  stir  the  roots  which  he  had  grown  into 
the  soil  of  his  native  pines. 

To  a  friend  who  placed  an  empty  cottage  in 
Florida  at  his  disposal,  one  winter,  he  replied : 
"  I  thank  thee  for  thy  kind  offer  of  the  Florida 
cottage ;  but  I  must  live  if  I  can,  and  die  if  I 
must,  in  Yankee  land." 

Whittier  suffered  from  physical  disabilities, 
—  only  those  who  knew  him  well  ever  sus 
pected  how  much,  or  how  seriously  these  af 
fected  the  exercise  of  his  great  powers.  He 
was  but  a  wretched  sleeper  ;  usually,  his  biog 
rapher  tells  us,  awake  before  the  dawn  ;  and 
accustomed  to  sleep  with  his  curtain  raised, 
163 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 

that  he  might  watch  the  movement  of  the  sun 
rise.  It  will  be  remembered  how  touchingly 
his  old  habit  wrought  upon  him,  on  the  day 
when  he  fell  into  his  last  sleep ;  when  the 
nurse  would  have  drawn  the  shade  to  darken 
the  room,  and  he  feebly  waved  his  hand  to 
order  it  raised  again,  that  he  might  not  lose 
the  final  sunrise  of  his  life. 

His  love  of  nature  was  always  something 
exquisite,  and  as  fresh  as  a  lad's  to  his  last 
hour.  I  find  his  letters  to  me  full  of  such 
touches  as  these  :  — 

"  These  November  days  of  Indian  summer 
make  me  happy  that  I  have  lived  to  see  them." 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  permitted  once  more  to 
see  the  miracle  of  spring." 

Again,  I  find  the  page  sprinkled  with  mag 
nolia  buds,  hepaticas,  and  violets,  and  "when 
the  golden  dandelion  comes,  it  will  be  really 
spring.  I  would  rather  see  these  flowers  in 
the  world  beyond  than  the  golden  streets  we 
are  told  of." 

But  I  am  borrowing  even  these  few  extracts 
from  a  previous  publication  of  his  letters, 
which  I  have  no  right  to  reproduce  in  any  full 
ness  here. 

I  have  often  heard  him  say  that  he  called 
five  hours'  sleep  a  fine  night's  rest ;  and  that 
for  weeks  at  a  time  he  would  be  unable  to 
164 


WHITTIER 

write  more  than  a  few  stanzas  or  a  few  lines. 
He  worked  under  severer  physical  limitations 
than  any  other  of  the  great  writers  of  our 
country ;  yet  how  wholesome,  how  genial,  how 
brave  his  work ! 

"  He  gave  the  people  of  his  best.  His 
worst  he  kept ;  his  best  he  gave."  Like  other 
solitary  lives  of  the  higher  caste,  his  chief  hap 
piness  was  in  his  friendships.  Of  these  he  had 
many  among  the  elect  spirits ;  and  he  sus 
tained  them  with  remarkable  fidelity.  I  some 
times  used  to  think  that  he  found  it  almost  too 
hard  to  criticise  any  of  his  friends,  or  to  give 
us  friendly  blame :  but  if  so,  he  atoned  for 
that  by  the  stimulating,  northwesterly  courage 
which  he  was  sure  to  have  in  store  for  us  ; 
always  giving  us  faith  in  ourselves  and  in  our 
own  work. 

And,  indeed,  he  could  smite  like  an  angel 
when  he  would.  Of  this  we  need  no  other 
witness  than  his  famous  poem  on  Daniel  Web 
ster, —  "Ichabod."  Though  it  is  but  just  to 
say  that  I  heard  him  during  the  last  years 
of  his  life  lament,  if  he  did  not  quite  repent, 
that  poem.  "I  am  afraid  I  was  too  severe," 
he  would  say  :  —  "  Does  thee  think  I  was  ?  " 

In  memorable  contrast  to  that  of  our  great 
hermit  ran  the  life  of  the  Beacon  Street  poet, 
165 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes.  Yet  the  two  were 
friends  in  the  genuine  sense  of  the  word. 
Whittier's  seclusion  held  many  of  his  friend 
ships  off  by  a  sceptre  as  delicate,  but  as  defi 
nite,  as  the  frosted  fronds  of  one  of  his  own 
pine  -  boughs.  But  in  the  case  of  Doctor 
Holmes,  I  know  that  the  mutual  attraction 
was  affectionate  and  real.  "  We  are  more 
than  literary  friends,"  Whittier  once  said  to 
me  of  the  Autocrat.  "  We  love  each  other." 

I  remember  one  winter  day  lunching  with 
Whittier  at  Doctor  Holmes's  table,  no  other 
guests  being  present ;  and  I  think  —  for  me 
—  it  was  the  dumbest  lunch  at  which  I  ever 
sat.  I  found  it  impossible  to  talk,  for  my 
speech  seemed  a  piece  of  intrusion  on  the 
society  of  larger  planets,  or  a  higher  race  than 
ours.  To  listen  to  those  two  was  one  of  the 
privileges  of  a  life-time.  They  interchanged 
their  souls —  now  like  boys,  and  now  like  poets  ; 
merrily  or  gravely  ;  Whittier  shining  at  his 
happiest,  and  Holmes  scintillating  steadily. 
As  for  that,  he  always  did.  Doctor  Holmes 
was  decidedly  the  most  brilliant  converser 
whom  I  have  ever  met. 

It  was  my  good  fortune  to  receive  him  as  a 

guest  sometimes  at  Gloucester,  in  my  summer 

home.     For  several  years  he  acquired  the  kind 

habit  of  coming  over  from  Beverly  Farms  to 

166 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 


HOLMES 

spend  a  day,  or  a  few  hours,  on  our  ruder 
shore.  I  remember  that  on  his  first  call  I  felt 
moved  as  one  does  with  a  new  guest,  to  show 
off  our  attractions  at  Eastern  Point,  and  that 
I  took  him,  thoughtlessly  enough,  down  into 
the  big  trap  gully  in  front  of  my  chalet,  where 
the  purple  lava  and  the  bronze  kelp  and  the 
green  sea-weed  brightened  and  faded  beneath 
the  rising  and  ebbing  waves,  whose  "  high-tide 
line  "  came  almost  to  my  doorstep. 

It  was  very  rough  walking  ;  and  when  I  saw 
that  it  was  not  easy  for  him,  —  for  he  was  even 
then  an  old  man,  —  I  cannot  say  what  I  might 
not  have  done  by  way  of  atoning  for  my  mis 
take.  I  do  not  think  I  had  extended  my  hand ; 
I  had  only  extended  my  thought ;  which  he 
read  by  that  marvelous  perception  of  his,  need 
ing  to  wait  for  neither  word  nor  motion. 

"  No,  no ! "  he  cried  decidedly,  "  No,  no, 
no !  Don't  you  offer  to  help  me !  Don't 
you  dare  offer  to  help  me  !  I  could  n't  stand 
that." 

I  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  let  him  clamber 
about  over  the  jagged  boulders  as  he  would, 
without  protest  or  assistance  ;  and  I  thanked 
the  heavenly  fates  which  brought  him  without 
accident  back  to  the  piazza..  Here  he  found 
the  breeze  which  blows  eternally  on  Glouces 
ter  harbor  too  cool  for  him,  and  we  retreated 
167 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 


indoors,  where  it  seemed  to  be  tacitly  under 
stood  that  we  should  agree  to  dispense  with 
any  further  explorations  ;  as  from  that  time 
we  did.  By  the  open  door  and  windows  we 
sat  and  talked  until  his  train  left,  or  his  car 
riage  came.  It  might  have  been  two  hours 
or  six  ;  or  we  might  have  talked  on  for  sixty, 
for  aught  I  know,  if  this  had  been  a  world 
without  enforced  interruptions  ;  —  I  wonder  if 
there  are  none  such  ? 

As  I  look  back  upon  those,  to  me,  absorbing 
discussions,  they  seem  to  have  been  either 
theological  or  religious  :  there  is  a  difference  ; 
and  he  gave  himself  freely  to  both.  They  had 
little  beginning  and  no  end,  and  each  year  he 
came  back  as  fresh  as  ever  to  the  pleasant 
fray. 

His  old  grievance  against  Andover,  where, 
as  a  lad  in  Phillips  Academy,  he  was  unjustly 
punished,  lay  bitterly  in  his  heart  to  the  end  of 
his  life ;  I  think  he  had  mingled  this  wrong 
a  little  in  his  imagination  —  not  in  his  intel 
lect  —  with  what  he  conceived  to  be  the  errors 
of  the  evangelical  view  of  religion  ;  and  that  I 
represented  to  him,  at  first,  a  liberalized  and 
modernized  Andover,  with  which  he  could 
"have  it  out."  After  a  little,  he  passed  all 
that,  and  our  talk  deepened  with  our  acquaint 
ance.  It  grew  franker  and  graver,  and  gentler. 
1 68 


HOLMES 

When  I  first  knew  him,  his  repugnance  to 
Orthodox  Christianity,  or  to  such  aspects  of  it 
as  an  unfortunate  personal  experience  had  ex 
tended  to  him,  was  something  more  than  bit 
ter.  He  talked  like  a  man  who  believed  him 
self  to  be  redressing  a  great  moral  wrong,  and 
who  felt  obliged  to  emphasize  his  crusade 
whenever  he  could.  In  the  latter  years  of  his 
life  I  saw  a  great  change  in  him  in  this  re 
spect.  He  talked  less  of  theology,  and  more 
of  Christianity  ;  less  of  error,  and  more  of 
truth  ;  less  of  other  men's  failures  to  represent 
the  divine  life  and  purpose  as  it  should  be,  and 
more  of  the  great  longings  and  struggle  of  the 
human  heart,  or  of  his  own,  to  reach  the  "  Ever 
lasting  Love,"  around  whose  throne  are  clouds 
and  darkness. 

More  than  once  I  have  heard  him  speak  of 
Canon  Farrar's  book,  "  Eternal  Hope,"  with 
an  emotion  touching  to  witness,  and  ennobling 
to  remember.  His  face  broke,  and  the  tears 
stirred  at  the  mere  mention  of  the  title.  "  I 
cannot  get  beyond  it,"  he  said  reverently. 
"  '  Eternal  Hope  /  '  I  cannot  talk  about  the 
title  of  that  book.  It  moves  me  too  much.  It 
goes  too  deep." 

We  spoke  more,  as  the  evening  of  his  life 
came  on,  of  the  more  spiritual  approaches  to 
religious  truth,  and  less  of  its  controversial, 

169 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

which,  I  hope,  dwindled  in  importance  to  him, 
as  he  came  nearer  to  the  great  solution  of 
doubts  and  beliefs  which  awaits  us  all.  Yet 
he  always  preserved  a  strong  demarcation  of 
reticence  about  his  own  inner  spiritual  life. 
This,  old  age  did  not  weaken  in  the  least.  He 
withheld  as  obviously  as  he  gave. 

I  remember  that  he  was  approached  during 
the  very  last  year,  or  years,  by  a  friend  acting 
in  behalf  of  "  McClure's  Magazine,"  who  had 
been  asked  to  induce  him,  if  possible,  to  con 
sent  to  an  interview  with  Professor  Drummond 
and  myself,  upon  the  subject  of  Immortality ; 
portions  of  this  discussion,  so  far  as  he  might 
select  and  personally  revise  them,  were  to  be 
published.  He  declined,  without  a  moment's 
hesitation,  saying  with  his  quick  wit :  "  I  will 
neither  be  lured  nor  mac-lured  into  anything 
of  the  kind  ! " 

But  in  a  personal  letter  he  spoke  more 
gravely  on  the  matter :  "  Nothing  would  de 
light  me  more  than  to  talk  over  Time  and 
Eternity  with  you  and  Mr.  Ward,  but  as  to 
saying  anything  on  these  subjects  to  be  re 
ported,  I  would  as  soon  send  a  piece  of  my 
spinal  marrow  to  one  of  these  omnivorous 
editors.  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  may  not  think  it 
worth  while  to  express  myself  with  absolute 
freedom  on  the  deepest  question." 
170 


HOLMES 

Doctor  Holmes's  appreciation  of  human  suf 
fering  seemed  to  me  as  exquisite  as  almost  any 
that  I  ever  approached.  It  did  not  stop  with 
his  heart,  but  permeated  his  whole  intellect. 
For  so  merry  a  man,  one  so  brimming  with 
fun,  his  sense  of  the  universal  misery  was  ex 
traordinary. 

"  Outside,  I  laugh,"  he  said  to  me  once. 
"  Inside,  I  never  laugh.  It  is  impossible.  The 
world  is  too  sad." 

"Oh,  the  poor  women!"  he  said  again, 
turning  to  me  a  face  broken  with  compas 
sion.  "It  is  as  much  as  one  can  bear,  to 
think  of  the  sufferings  of  women  —  what  they 
endure  —  what  they  always  have  —  in  this 
world  !  " 

"  How  can  God  bear  it  ? "  he  cried,  at  an 
other  time,  suddenly  starting  from  silence 
which  had  fallen  upon  our  discussion  ;  —  "  this 
ball  of  anguish  forever  spinning  around  before 
Him,  and  the  great  hum  of  its  misery  going 
up  to  His  ears  !  " 

Yet  who  was  so  quick  and  warm  of  heart  as 
he,  to  give  happiness  or  to  share  it  ? 

Out  of  courtesy  to  his  biographer,  I  do  not 
feel  at  liberty  here  to  publish  his  letters  ;  but 
I  am  tempted  to  select  portions  of  one,  which 
I  am  sure  neither  law  nor  gospel  would  forbid 
me  to  claim  as  my  very  own  ;  and  that  is  the 
171 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

letter  received  from  him  a  few  days  after  my 
marriage.  It  was  one  of  the  first  —  as  it  was 
one  of  the  kindest  —  to  reach  us.  I  cannot 
give  it  entire,  but  extract :  — 

"  You  have  made  me  cry  a  great  many 
times.  Now  you  make  me  smile  with  gratifi 
cation  to  know  that  you  are  anchored  in  that 
happy  haven  where  the  highest  blessings  of 
life  are  to  be  found  by  those  who  are  fitted  for 
its  manifold  experiences. 

"  I  hope  the  gates  of  yours  will  never  be 
ajar,  but  always  wide  open  to  all  old  friend 
ships  and  all  good  influences,  and  always  closed 
against  every  ill  from  which  your  earthly  lot 
can  be  protected. 

"  My  wishes  for  you  are  very  many,  my 
prayers  are  very  brief,  but  they  overflow  with 
the  sincerest  desire  for  your  happiness  in  this 
world  for  which  you  have  done  so  much,  and 
in  that  other  into  which  you  have  looked  with 
clearer  eyes  than  ours." 

The  last  time  that  he  came  to  see  us  was  in 
Gloucester,  a  year  and  a  half,  I  think,  before 
he  died.  Our  little  house  had  been  moved 
since  his  last  visit,  and  I  tried  to  show  him 
certain  of  the  best  changes  in  the  landscape. 
He  tried,  politely,  but  it  was  pitifully  evident 
that  he  could  not  see  beyond  the  bright  marsh 
colors  in  the  autumn  light  just  outside  our  gate. 
172 


HOLMES 

The  horizon  of  the  sea,  I  am  sure,  was  quite 
beyond  his  fading  eyes. 

We  begged  him  to  try  to  get  out  from  town 
and  see  our  winter  home  in  Newton,  where  we 
cherish  some  remarkable  scenery  :  but  he  shook 
his  head,  pathetically,  without  speaking.  After 
a  moment's  silence,  he  touched  his  eyes.  "  I 
could  not  see  it/'  he  said.  "  There  is  no  more 
new  scenery  for  me  till  I  see  the  outlines  of 
the  Eternal  City." 

I  saw  him  after  this  but  twice,  once  at  the 
table  of  our  best  of  friends  and  publishers,  Mr. 
Houghton  —  I  wonder,  have  they  seen  each 
other  by  this  time,  in  the  New  Country  ?  — 
where  I  thought  him  more  than  usually  quiet ; 
either  ill  or  sad  ;  but  doing  his  best  to  give 
the  bright  wine  of  thought  that  was  always 
expected  of  Doctor  Holmes  in  society.  And, 
by  the  way,  how  truly  he  loved  it ! 

"  I  have,"  he  said  to  me  once,  "  what  I  call 
my  dinner-table  intimacies.  I  enjoy  them 
very  much." 

My  last  look  at  him  was  in  his  own  study, 
overlooking  the  silver-gray  color  of  Charles 
River,  on  a  winter  afternoon.  We  talked  — 
much  in  the  old  way  —  but  more  soberly,  and 
ever  more  gently.  His  soul  seemed  to  be 
brimming  over  with  kindness  to  every  form  of 
life  in  this  world,  and  in  the  world  beyond. 
i73 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

Even  the  Andover  schoolmaster  was  forgiven 
and  forgotten.  Of  Andover  theology  he  had 
now  nothing  to  say.  His  heart  seemed  to  be 
melting  with  tenderness,  with  desire  to  give 
happiness  and  to  spare  pain;  and  he  like  one 
who  waited,  without  regret  or  disturbance,  the 
summons  to  that 

"  Love  Divine  that  stooped  to  share 
Our  sharpest  pang,  our  bitterest  tear." 

He  insisted  on  coming  downstairs  with  me 
when  I  left ;  he  took  my  hand  silently ;  upon 
his  face  was  the  look  which  only  the  aged 
wear,  when  they  part  from  younger  friends ; 
as  if  he  dared  not  say,  "  It  is  the  last  time  ;  " 
—  but  knew  it,  though  I  did  not. 

174 


IX 


CELIA  THAXTER  :  LUCY  LARCOM  I  LYDIA  MARIA 
CHILD  :  PHILLIPS  BROOKS  :  THE  OLD  MAIDS* 
PARADISE 

FOR  many  years  one  of  the  brightest  figures 
in  literary  Boston,  was  Celia  Thaxter. 

She  had,  if  not  more  leisure,  perhaps  more 
temperament  and,  at  all  events,  more  strength 
for  social  life  than  some  others  of  the  group ; 
and  she  was  always  sure  of  a  welcome  which, 
in  itself,  was  a  great  temptation  to  earn  it. 
She  was  the  best  of  good  company.  Every 
body  wanted  her.  Hearty,  happy,  wholesome, 
she  rose  through  a  decorous  drawing-room  or 
sedate  library,  like  a  breeze  from  her  own 
island  waves.  When  she  had  gone,  one  felt  as 
if  an  East  wind  had  suddenly  died  down. 

She  was  the  most  fearless,  the  most  indepen 
dent  of  beings.  It  mattered  little  to  her  what 
other  people  did  or  thought ;  at  least,  on  secon 
dary  subjects.  She  was  never  afraid  to  be  her 
self.  To  certain  modulations  of  manner  she 
never  consented.  "  Celia  Thaxter's  laugh  "  is 
well  remembered.  No  subdued  and  conven- 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

tional  mirth  softly  rippled  from  her  broad  chest 
and  honest  larynx.  When  she  laughed,  she 
pealed.  This  merry  ring  was  infectious.  It 
was  as  impossible  to  hear  it,  and  not  laugh  too, 
as  it  is  for  the  feet  that  love  dance  music  to 
keep  still  before  it.  She  was  the  incarnation  of 
good  spirits. 

Her  vigorous  physique  had  much  to  do  with 
this,  for  she  had  her  share  of  the  sorrows  of 
life.  These  she  bore  characteristically,  with 
out  much  complaint,  with  some  suppressed 
cynicism,  and  with  that  bubbling  faith  in 
brighter  futures  so  easy  to  the  sanguine  nature. 

I  knew  her  as  one  does  a  comrade  with  whom 
one  is  never  intimate ;  but  whom  one  regards 
affectionately,  and  whose  history  one  makes 
guesses  at,  or  forms  opinions  of,  from  a  definite 
distance.  I  do  not  offer  of  her,  in  any  sense, 
the  reminiscences  of  a  confidential  friend. 

Once,  I  remember,  I  vexed  her  by  something 
in  a  letter  which  I  wrote  her  apropos  of  a  religious 
discussion  that  we  had  held,  in  an  interrupted 
form.  She  was  then  at  the  bitterest  turn  in 
the  long  avenue  that  leads  through  defiance  to 
acceptance  of  religious  truth.  But  she  forgave 
me,  I  think,  —  I  am  sure  I  did  her,  —  and  I 
am  very  sure  that  in  the  later  years  of  her  life 
she  would  have  given  the  plea  of  any  Christian 
a  different  reception.  I  did  not  know  her 
176 


CELIA    THAXTER 


CELIA   THAXTER 

intimately  enough  to  say  just  how  far  the 
growth  of  her  religious  character  carried  her,  in 
intellectual  form,  and  I  have  no  right  to  mark 
its  boundaries.  But  I  think  the  longing  for  it 
was  always  in  her. 

"If  I  believed  as  you  do,"  she  said  to  me 
once,  fiercely,  "  nothing  would  daunt  me ! 
Nothing  would  daunt  me  !  " 

I  was  present  one  day  when  she  was  describ 
ing  to  a  .little  group  a  wreck  off  Appledore  : 
how  she  sat  at  her  window,  watching  one  of  the 
cruelest  gales  of  the  midwinter  Atlantic  gather 
its  forces.  The  breakers  upon  her  own  rocks 
were  at  their  worst.  A  solitary  sail  blurred 
on  the  racing  horizon,  and  beat  up  ;  the  vessel 
struck  on  the  reef,  and  broke  to  pieces.  The 
Islands  were  helpless  to  help.  It  was  impossi 
ble  to  extend  an  oar.  Watchers  on  that  little 
spot  of  life  could  only  sit  and  see  the  game  of 
death  go  on  :  it  was  not  a  snarl  and  a  snap, 
but  a  slow  torture.  For  the  crew  had  hung  and 
clung  to  the  teeth  of  a  rock  around  which  the 
whirlpool  played ;  and  there  their  distant  fig 
ures,  drenched  and  drowning,  pleaded  for  their 
lives  in  the  sight  of  the  warm-hearted  woman 
who  could  only  watch  them  slip  and  drop  off, 
one  by  one. 

I  think  she  said  they  clung  there  for  five 
hours  before  they  surrendered  to  the  sea. 
177 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

When  Mrs.  Thaxter  had  told  the  story  in  her 
own  inimitable  manner,  with  the  vividness  of 
vitriol  she  lifted  her  eyes,  flung  them  straight 
at  mine,  with  the  dreariest  look  that  I  ever  saw 
on  the  face  of  any  doubter  in  the  darkest  den  of 
despair. 

"  Fools  to  cling  !  "  she  cried.  "  They  were 
fools — fools  to  cling  !  " 

I  have  never  been  one  of  those  fortunate 
people  who  have  their  happy  thoughts  at 
tongue's  end  ;  my  repartees  are  apt  to  wait  for 
my  pen  ;  else  I  should  have  answered  her  :  — 

"  Philosophers  to  cling !  While  there  is 
hope  of  life  eternal,  the  saddest  mortal  life  is 
worth  the  living.  Philosophers  to  cling  !  " 

It  is  a  pleasant  thought  to  me  that  this  gifted 
woman,  with  the  luxurious  heart  and  the  eager 
brain,  was  herself  philosopher  enough  to  cling, 
until  a  distinct  measure  of  spiritual  light  and 
peace  came  to  her  later  on. 

She  was  full  of  a  certain  wit,  or  perhaps 
more  exactly,  humor,  which  was  native  to  her 
self,  and  strong  of  the  salt  of  her  own  sea 
weeds. 

One  day,  I  remember,  she  sat  painting  china 
—  which  she  did  after  a  graceful  and  original 
fashion  —  when  some  one  present  ventured  a 
commonplace  about  the  delights  of  her  island 
life :  its  solitude,  its  peacefulness,  its  opportuni- 
178 


LUCY   LARCOM 

ties  to  study  nature,  and  so  on.  It  was  in  win 
ter,  and  it  was  snowing.  She  looked  out  of  the 
window  into  the  clashing  Boston  street,  then 
threw  back  her  head,  and  laughed  out  long  and 
joyously. 

"  Did  you  ever  try  it  ? "  she  said  ;  "  I  Ve  had 
enough  of  the  wilderness.  Give  me  a  horse- 
car!" 

Mrs.  Thaxter  was  of  attractive  personal 
appearance,  retaining  some  suggestion  of  the 
beauty  for  which  she  was  distinguished  in  her 
first  youth ;  when,  betrothed  as  a  mere  child, 
and  a  bride  at  sixteen,  the  Miranda  of  the 
Shoals  wedded  the  first  man  whom  she  had 
known,  and  ventured  upon  the  mainland  of  life 
at  the  age  when,  if  she  had  been  a  girl  of  our 
day  under  the  usual  conditions,  she  would  have 
been  preparing  to  "  come  out,"  or  fitting  for 
college. 

Like  a  pale  purple  aster  beside  a  gorgeous 
golden-rod,  the  sweet  wraith  of  Lucy  Larcom 
flits  in  beside  that  of  Mrs.  Thaxter  in  my 
memory. 

It  falls  away  again  quickly,  for  I  saw  Miss 
Larcom  but  seldom  :  I  knew  her  chiefly  through 
her  letters,  which  reached  me  at  irregular  in 
tervals.  I  had  the  sincerest  respect  both  for  her 
personality  and  for  her  work.  One  of  the  ex- 
179 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A    LIFE 

editors  of  the  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  himself  a 
brilliant  writer,  once  reviewed  a  book  of  hers  in 
these  words : — 

"  There  is  something  in  this  volume  which 
we  do  not  mind  calling  genius." 

She  was  not  a  woman  to  mind  being  "  called 
names  "  in  this  fashion  ;  but  undoubtedly  had 
her  laugh  out,  with  the  editor,  at  this  clever 
turn  of  words. 

The  value  of  her  work  is  beyond  question  : 
the  strength  of  it  continually  surprises  one  who 
is,  from  the  surface,  chiefly  impressed  with  her 
gentleness  of  spirit. 

She  was  always  more  or  less  in  the  thick  of 
a  struggle  for  existence  ;  life  was  never  easy  to 
her,  but  she  gave  ease  to  it.  There  was  a  kind 
of  comfortableness  about  her,  which,  I  think, 
impressed  'me  more  than  anything  else  in  her 
personality.  Miss  Larcom  had  a  fine  presence. 
She  was  large  and  well-proportioned,  and  had 
a  certain  sort  of  handsomeness.  The  well- 
known  picture  of  her  in  the  bonnet  is  the  best 
that  I  have  ever  seen. 

She  had  absolute  simplicity  of  manner ;  I 
never  saw  in  her  a  trace  of  either  embarrass 
ment  or  elaboration,  much  less  of  affectation. 
She  was  a  motherly-looking  woman.  A  stran 
ger  might  have  guessed  her  to  be  in  the  pro 
cess  of  putting  several  boys  through  college  ; 
180 


LUCY    LARCOM 


LUCY   LARCOM 

not  in  the  least  worried  about  their  debts,  and 
never  nagging  them  about  their  scrapes. 

This  ease  of  nature  sometimes  led  to  a  little 
dreaminess,  or  absence  of  practical  attention, 
of  which  her  friends  were  laughingly  and  lov 
ingly  aware.  There  is  a  story  told  of  a  ride 
that  she  took  with  Mr.  Whittier  —  I  cannot 
now  recall  it  in  his  precise  words. 

The  hill  was  steep,  Mr.  Whittier  was  driving. 
The  horse  was  gay.  The  load  —  on  the  lady's 
side,  at  least  —  was  not  light.  Lucy  Larcom 
was  talking,  and  she  talked  on.  I  think  the 
subject  was  the  life  to  come.  At  all  events,  it 
was  some  abstract  theme,  grave  and  high. 

The  horse  grew  unruly.  The  buggy  lurched 
and  rolled.  Whittier  grasped  the  reins  val 
iantly,  anticipating  a  possible  accident,  and 
centring  his  being  on  the  emergency.  But 
Lucy  talked  on  serenely.  * 

The  horse  threatened  to  break.  The  dan 
ger  redoubled.  The  buggy  sagged  heavily,  on 
Lucy's  side.  Still,  peacefully  she  murmured 
on. 

"  Lucy !  "  exploded  the  poet,  at  last.  "  Lucy ! 
If  thee  does  not  stop  talking  till  I  get  this 
horse  in  hand,  thee  will  be  in  heaven  before 
thee  wants  to  !  " 

There  was  in  those  days  in  Boston  a  dear 
181 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 

old  lady  living  "  all  alone  in  a  shoe,"  one 
might  say,  so  narrow  was  her  home  ;  she  was 
seldom  seen  in  society,  but  was  valuable  to  it, 
accordingly.  I  saw  her  only  twice,  but  she  im 
pressed  me  as  a  strong  and  lofty  personality, 
so  far  above  the  usual  social  human  being  that 
her  solitude  and  the  sparseness  of  her  envi 
ronment  seemed  to  partake  of  the  character  of 
luxuries  which  most  of  us  were  unfit  to  share. 

This  was  Lydia  Maria  Child.  Some  thought 
ful  hostess  —  I  think  it  was  Mrs.  Fields  —  took 
me  one  day  to  call  on  Mrs.  Child.  At  that 
time  this  distinguished  abolitionist  was  occupy 
ing  lodgings  so  plain,  in  a  quarter  of  Boston 
so  much  less  than  fashionable,  that  I  felt  a  cer 
tain  awe  upon  me,  as  if  I  were  visiting  a  mar 
tyr  in  prison.  There  was  no  exaggeration  in 
this  feeling,  when  one  remembered  that  this 
woman's  life  had  been  one  long  suppression 
of  self,  and  obliteration  of  that  background  of 
personal  comfort  which  the  rest  of  us  con 
sider  essential  to  our  own  portraits.  It  is  well 
known  that  Mrs.  Child  sacrificed  the  prospect 
of  a  brilliant  literary  future  to  her  convictions 
in  the  movement  for  freeing  the  American 
slaves. 

It  is  not  so  well  known  that  she  had  all  her 
life  expended  such  means  as  she  had  in  pri 
vate  charities,  denying  herself  every  luxury 
182 


LYDIA   MARIA  CHILD 

and  many  common  comforts,  in  order  to  com 
pass  the  power  to  relieve  or  to  prevent  suffer 
ing. 

We  climbed  the  steep  stairs  of  her  boarding- 
house  thoughtfully.  Each  one  of  them  meant 
some  generous  check  which  Mrs.  Child  had 
drawn  for  the  benefit  of  something  or  some 
body,  choosing  this  restricted  life  as  the  price 
of  her  beneficence. 

She  received  us  in  a  little  sitting-room  which 
seemed  to  me  dreariness  personified.  Every 
thing  was  neat,  respectable,  and  orderly ;  but 
the  paucity  of  that  interior  contrasted  sadly 
with  the  rich  nature  of  its  occupant. 

I  particularly  remember  the  tint  of  the  car 
pet  —  a  lifeless  brown.  The  room  was  so  de 
void  of  color  as  to  seem  like  a  cell ;  and  the 
winter  day  had  been  a  dark  one. 

As  we  sat  talking,  the  sun  battled  through 
the  clouds,  and  then  we  saw  that  Mrs.  Child 
had  "the  afternoon  side"  of  her  boarding- 
house,  and  knew  how  to  make  the  most  of  it. 
She  rose  quickly  and,  taking  a  little  prism 
which  she  evidently  treasured,  hung  it  in  the 
window  so  that  it  caught  the  southwestern  ray. 

Instantly   the   colorless    room   leaped   with 

rainbows.     The  sweet  old  lady  stood  smiling, 

in  the  midst  of  them  ;  she  directed  them  this 

way  and   that,  and  threw  them   all  over  the 

183 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

empty  spaces  and  plain  furniture.  She  had,  I 
thought,  a  little  in  her  mind,  the  consciousness 
of  my  companion's  own  beautiful  library  and 
richly  endowed  life.  It  was  as  if  she  said,  — 
"  You  see  I  have  not  much  to  offer ;  but  I  give 
you  of  my  best." 

This  dedicated  woman  had  no  luxuries,  nei 
ther  upholstery  nor  bric-a-brac,  as  accessories 
to  her  peaceful  welcome  ;  —  only  God's  sun 
shine,  and  the  rainbows  that  she  knew  how  to 
make  out  of  it. 

I  never  see  a  prism  without  thinking  of  her 
noble  life  ;  and  I  keep  one  in  my  study  win 
dows  to  this  day,  partly  in  memory  of  this 
beautiful  and  pathetic  incident.  It  did  me 
good,  and  I  do  not  want  to  forget  it. 

Mrs.  Child,  at  our  request,  talked  about  her 
anti-slavery  experiences.  These  moved  me  very 
much.  But  I  find  that  the  thing  which  im 
pressed  me  most,  and  has  stayed  with  me 
longest,  was  this. 

"  How  did  you  know  ?  "  one  of  us  asked, 
"  in  the  midst  of  so  much  doubt  and  danger, 
and  possible  fraud  —  how  did  you  always  know 
just  whom  and  where  to  trust,  when  these 
fugitives  appealed  to  you  for  help  ? " 

"  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  there  was  a  pass-word. 
It  carried  any  escaping  slave  through  the  un 
derground  railway,  to  safety.  Sometimes  it 
184 


LYDIA    MARIA    CHILD 


PHILLIPS   BROOKS 

was  written  on  a  slip  of  torn,  soiled  paper. 
Sometimes  it  was  only  whispered  for  dear  life's 
sake.  But  any  colored  person  who  came  to  us 
with  that  pass-word  was  received  and  passed 
on  without  a  question.  It  carried  him  any 
where,  and  gave  him  every  chance  that  we 
could  command." 

She  paused,  and  looked  at  the  rainbows  in 
the  lodging-house  window  dreamily.  Her  heart 
had  gone  far  back. 

"  What  was  the  pass-word  ?  "  we  ventured 
to  urge. 

"  /  was  a  stranger  and  ye  took  Me  in,"  softly 
said  the  old  abolitionist. 

There  was  one  man  in  Boston  of  whom  no 
body  ever  saw  enough  ;  and  I  almost  too  little 
to  offer  what  I  have  kept  of  his  great  memory. 

My  acquaintance  with  Phillips  Brooks  was 
rather  one  of  friendliness  than  of  friendship ; 
which  is  a  large  word,  and  one  demanding 
conscientious  interpretation,  especially  in  the 
case  of  a  man  in  manner  so  genial  to  hundreds, 
and  at  heart  so  reserved  from  all  but  a  few. 
Yet  the  more  vivid  recollections  of  him  which 
come  to  my  pen  seem,  at  least  to  me,  to  have 
almost  too  much  value  to  be  lost ;  and  I  ven 
ture  to  insert  one  or  two  of  them  here. 

I  met  Dr.  Brooks  only  now  and  then  ;  and 
185 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

his  letters  were  brief,  -and  usually  concerned 
some  deed  or  impulse  of  mercy  or  of  profes 
sional  service.  My  recollections  of  him,  such 
as  they  are,  I  find  to  be  either  definitely  of 
a  grave  and  religious  nature,  or  sparkling 
with  social  gayety  —  one  of  the  two  extremes. 
I  do  not  recall  him  at  all  in  what  I  once 
heard  called  "  a  comfortable,  middling  view  of 
things." 

In  conversation  he  was  one  of  the  merriest 
of  entertainers.  Sometimes  I  used  to  think 
him  almost  too  ready  to  let  the  occasion  float 
away  in  jest,  while  I,  like  so  many  others, 
would  have  chosen  to  sound  with  him  some 
theme  of  height  or  depth  ;  but  of  course  one 
can  readily  understand  how  weary  his  nerve 
might  have  become  of  the  seriousness  of  life, 
and  how  much  it  needed  "  the  light  touch." 

For  this  reason,  perhaps,  the  occasions  in 
which  the  man  revealed  himself  with  power 
and  solemnity  are  more  distinct  in  my  mind. 

Once,  I  had  asked  a  favor  of  him :  that  he 
would  receive  a  little  friend  of  mine,  a  sweet 
lassie,  Who  had  listened  to  his  preaching  till 
her  heart  had  chosen  him  for  her  priest.  She 
was  scarcely  more  than  a  child,  but  not  at  all 
a  common  one  ;  her  need  was  genuine,  and 
not  to  be  confounded  with  a  girl's  mere  hero- 
worship  for  a  popular  preacher.  In  his  own 
1 86 


PHILLIPS   BROOKS 

hearty  way  he  welcomed  her  to  his  house, 
whither  it  was  expected  that  I  would  accom 
pany  her.  I  did  so  ;  occupying  myself,  I  re 
member,  with  a  pile  of  fresh  galleys  in  another 
room,  while  the  child  went  into  the  preacher's 
study. 

"We  will  stay,"  I  said,  "but  ten  minutes. 
Send  her  out  to  me  when  the  time  is  up." 

Fifteen  minutes  passed  —  a  half  hour  —  my 
proof-sheets  were  all  corrected  before  the  cler 
gyman  came  out  with  the  child.  He  had  given 
her  the  heart  of  the  morning,  his  working-time. 
Who  knows  what  the  little  maiden's  spirit 
needed  and  received  of  the  great  preacher's  ? 
For  the  child  died  before  another  winter  fell. 
Did  that  strong,  priestly  heart  prepare  her  for 
the  new  life  —  neither  knowing  why  she  had 
sought,  or  he  had  given,  the  strength  to  take 
the  last,  short  steps  ? 

I  turned  to  speak  to  them,  as  the  pastor  and 
parishioner  came  out  of  the  study  ;  but  one 
glance  stopped  the  words  upon  my  lips.  The 
tears  were  falling  down  his  face,  unchecked, 
unnoticed.  He  could  not  speak,  and  did  not 
try ;  but  solemnly  handed  the  little  maiden  to 
my  charge,  and  I  left  without  a  word. 

Afterwards,  when  her  little,  lovely  life  came 
to  its  sharp  end,  I  wrote  to  tell  him.  His  re 
ply  indicated  that  the  interview  had  made  as 
187 


CHAPTERS    FROM  A    LIFE 

deep  an  impression  upon  him  as  the  witness  of 
it  had  left  upon  me. 

The  last  time  that  I  saw  Mr.  Brooks  to 
speak  with  him,  was  at  a  memorable  crisis  in 
his  history.  It  was  close  upon  the  date  of  his 
acceptance  of  the  Bishopric  of  Massachusetts  ; 
but  this  fact  was  not  yet  generally  known. 
The  movement  of  his  own  mind  at  the  time, 
while  his  decision  to  leave  Trinity  Church  for 
ever  was  still  seething,  was  as  solemn  as 
prayer. 

If  one  had  any  doubt  of  this,  the  sight  of 
the  man,  on  the  occasion  to  which  I  refer, 
would  have  made  it  clear  to  the  dullest  per 
ception. 

We  were  at  lunch,  —  four  of  us,  —  Mr. 
Brooks,  Doctor  Holmes,  Mr.  Ward  and  myself, 
with  friends  whose  hospitality  is  expert  in  the 
art  of  selecting  the  difficult  and  delightful  num 
ber  of  guests  which  is  more  than  the  graces, 
but  less  than  the  muses. 

Mr.  Brooks  was  very  quiet  at  first  —  almost 
silent ;  and  it  seemed  to  my  slight,  social  ex 
perience  with  him,  unprecedentedly  sober.  But 
Doctor  Holmes's  conversational  genius  soon 
struck  the  sparks  from  the  smouldering  fire  in 
the  preacher's  heart,  and  the  two  men  began  to 
talk.  The  rest  of  us  held  the  breath  to  listen, 
as  our  hostess,  with  her  distinguished  tact, 
1 88 


PHILLIPS  BROOKS 

stirred  the  flame  when  she  would  ;  and  one  of 
the  most  remarkable  conversations  which  I 
ever  heard,  followed. 

On  Mr.  Brooks's  part,  this  was  more  than 
grave,  —  it  was  devout  almost  to  the  point 
of  exhortation  or  prophecy.  Doctor  Holmes 
played  with  the  great  stream  of  religious  feel 
ing  for  a  few  moments,  but  he  quickly  and 
reverently  swung  himself  along  with  it :  I  shall 
never  forget  the  expression  with  which  he 
regarded  Mr.  Brooks.  It  was  one  of  unalloyed 
trust  and  admiration  ;  at  moments  it  had  a 
beautiful  wistfulness,  as  if  he  might  have 
said :  — 

"  Of   course,  you   know  I  can 't  altogether  \ 
agree   with   you ;   but   you   almost   make   me 
wish  I  could  !  " 

As  the  talk  deepened,  Mr.  Brooks  roused 
and  raised  himself  and  us  to  one  of  those  rare 
altitudes  of  which  one  always  says  afterwards, 
"  It  was  good  to  be  there." 

He  began  to  talk  about  the  duties  of  the 

upper  to  the  lower  classes  of  society,  and  of 

the   Christian    to  the   irreligious.     He   spoke 

rapidly,    then   earnestly,  then   eagerly,    hotly, 

, without   fear   and  without   reproach,  like   the 

Christian  Bayard  that  he  was.     At  the  last,  he 

pushed  on   into  monologue  —  a  thing  I  never 

heard  him  do  before  ;  and  no  one,  not  even 

189 


CHAPTERS   FROM    A   LIFE 

the  king  of  Boston  conversers,  cared  to  inter 
rupt  him. 

The  preacher's  eyes  burned  over  our  heads 
into  the  peaceful  perspective  of  Charles  River ; 
his  voice  took  on  the  priestly  ring  ;  he  seemed 
to  hear  the  orders  of  authority  "  we  could  not 
hear,"  and  to  see  visions  which  "we  might  not 
see."  He  scathed  the  fashionable  classes  for 
their  follies,  and  flung  a  kind  of  holy  scorn  at 
the  paltriness  and  cowardice  which  excused 
itself  from  contact  with  the  suffering  and  the 
loathsomeness  of  the  lower  world. 

To  my  surprise,  he  spoke  of  the  Salvation 
Army  in  language  of  deep  respect.  He  hon 
ored  its  work.  He  prophesied  heartily  for  its 
future.  He  spoke  contemptuously  of  the  ner 
vousness  of  people  of  ease  about  infection  in 
clothing  brought  from  the  sweat-shops,  and 
from  homes  whose  horrors  few  of  us  troubled 
a  heart-throb  to  alleviate.  With  sacred  indig 
nation  he  rebuked  the  heathen  of  the  West 
End,  who  cared  neither  for  their  own  souls 
nor  for  those  of  other  men.  He  scored  world- 
liness  of  heart  and  life  in  a  lofty  denunciation, 
to  which  it  was  impossible  to  offer  a  protesting 
word. 

He  mentioned,  by  name,  a  certain  fashion 
able  men's  club  on  the  Back  Bay. 

"The  Salvation  Army,"  he  cried,  "ought 
190 


PHILLIPS   BROOKS 

to  be  sent  there.  Nobody  needs  them  more. 
They  ought  to  go  right  through  such  a  place 
as  that,  and  preach  New  Testament  religion  ! " 

At  this  point,  Doctor  Holmes  suggested,  in 
a  subdued  voice  :  — 

"  But,  Doctor  Brooks,  such  men  as  those  are 
not  going  to  listen  to  the  Salvation  Army.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  the  man  to  go  into 
the Club,  and  preach  Christianity." 

Mr.  Brooks  made  no  reply.  The  rest  of  us 
took  the  thought  up,  and  urged  him  a  little. 
But  he  fell  into  a  silence,  so  sad  that  it  was 
impossible  to  break  it.  His  gaze  wandered 
from  us,  solemnly.  Was  he  renewing  the  con 
flict  of  soul  which  must  have  preceded  his  de 
termination  to  leave  the  pastorate  of  his  loved 
and  loving  people  ?  Was  he  heartsick  with  his 
own  great  ideal  of  what  a  Christian  teacher 
might  achieve  and  must  forever  fail  to  ?  Was 
he  thinking  of  his  limits  in  the  light  of  his  J 
aspirations  ?  He  talked  no  more.  In  a  few 
moments  he  abruptly  and  silently  left  us. 

I  was  once  talking  with  a  man  of  well-known 
gifts  and  power  who  is  a  pronounced  unbeliever 
in  Christianity,  —  indeed,  a  free-thinker  of  a 
confirmed  type.  In  answer  to  some  personal 
plea  of  mine  for  the  rationality  of  faith,  he  ex 
claimed  :  — 

"  A  Christian  ?     If    If  I  were  to  be  a  Chris- 
191 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

tiany  I  should  have  to  be  —  why,  I  should  have 
to  be  such  a  man  as  Phillips  Brooks  !  " 

That  instinctive  reverence  in  the  man  of 
this  world  for  the  man  of  the  other  I  have  al 
ways  called  the  finest  tribute  to  Mr.  Brooks 
that  I  have  ever  heard. 

One  of  the  pleasant est  recollections  which 
I  have  of  Phillips  Brooks  is  not  at  all  con 
nected  with  Boston,  but  brings  me  to  my  life  at 
Gloucester,  and  will  be  given  later  in  this  frag 
mentary  story,  which  is  now  well  overdue  at 
my  own  summer  home  upon  the  rough  shores 
of  Cape  Ann. 

It  fell  to  me,  rather  early  in  life,  to  try 
one  of  those  experiments  at  home-making  for 
one's  self  in  which  unmarried  women  venture 
less  often,  I  think,  than  would  be  good  for 
them  and  for  society  at  large.  My  father's 
absence  from  Andover  in  search  of  his  lost 
health  having  become  a  settled  part  of  the 
summer  programmes,  I  pursued,  for  a  while, 
the  usual  career  of  summer  boarder.  The 
usual  restlessness  for  "  higher  things "  re 
sulted. 

I  had  engaged   rooms,  'one   summer,  upon 

the  other  side  of  Cape  Ann,  privately  known 

to   its  North  Shore  residents   as   the    Pacific 

Ocean,  meaning  thereby  the  region  of  Ipswich 

192 


PHILLIPS    BROOKS 


THE   OLD   MAIDS'  PARADISE 

Bay.  Our  quarters  were  far  from  the  sea,  in 
the  thick  of  a  village,  and  opposite  a  grammar 
school.  I  bore  it  for  a  week,  and  then,  one 
desperate  day,  I  started  upon  an  exploring  ex 
pedition.  We  drove  on  for  seven  miles,  cross 
ing  the  noisiest  and  dustiest  and  fishiest  of 
little  cities,  without  enthusiasm.  Gloucester, 
as  to  her  business  sections,  did  not  prove  al 
luring,  but  we  pushed  on  eastward  down  her 
harbor  shore. 

Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  our  journey,  hot, 
dusty  and  discouraged,  toiling  up  what  is  known 
as  Patch's  Hill,  we  brought  our  tired  pony  to  a 
halt,  and  drew  the  breath  of  unexpected  and 
undreamed-of  delight.  We  had  discovered 
Eastern  Point. 

Out  of  the  salt  dust,  out  of  the  narrow, 
scorching  streets,  by  the  fish-flakes  and  the 
fish-teams,  past  the  rude  roads  whose  boulders 
seemed  to  have  been  only  "  spatted  "  down  by 
the  whimsical  street-commissioner,  Time,  we 
came  upon  the  fairest  face  of  all  the  New  Eng 
land  coast,  —  the  Eastern  side  of  Gloucester 
Harbor. 

The  traveling  American,  who  has  seen  the 
world,  often  tells  me  that  here  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  scenes  upon  the  whole  round 
face  of  it.  On  this  point  I  am  not  authorized 
by  experience  to  testify  ;  but  my  private  con- 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

victions  are  that  it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  a 
lovelier  bit  of  coast  survey. 

There  is  a  nook  known  as  Wonson's  ;  it  was 
then  a  sheltered,  peaceful  spot,  scarcely  devas 
tated  by  the  tramp  of  the  summer  boarder,  and 
so  undisturbed  that  I  only  knew  when  callers 
came  because  the  chickens  ran  past  the  window 
to  get  away  from  them. 

A  cottage  with  its  feet  in  the  water  and  its 
eyes  on  the  harbor  received  me ;  and  there, 
close  upon  the  gorge  with  the  lava  trap,  and 
glancing  over  the  little  beach  where  the  north 
west  gales  clear  out  the  cool  dashes  of  green 
and  purple  and  bronze,  and  where  mast  and 
mainsail  cut  brown  and  sharp  against  the  gold 
beyond  Ten  Pound  Island,  and  the  towers  of 
old  Gloucester  (called  by  architects  picturesque 
for  America)  rise  against  the  sunset,  I  spent 
the  preliminary  summers  which  made  me  slave 
to  Gloucester  shore  for  life.  The  result  was 
the  chalet  known  to  my  "  kind  readers  "  as 
The  Old  Maids'  Paradise. 

This  I  built,  and  there  I  lived  from  May  to 
November,  or  nearly  that.  The  waves  played 
almost  to  my  door  ;  in  winter  the  spray  dashed 
upon  the  piazza.  The  fishermen,  my  neighbors, 
drew  up  their  dories  upon  the  rocks  in  front  of 
me ;  the  foreground  was  marked  by  lobster- 
pots,  and  nets  spread  upon  the  scanty  grass  to 
194 


THE   OLD   MAIDS'   PARADISE 

dry  or  to  mend.  The  fishermen's  children  — 
who  could  hold  an  oar  at  the  age  of  three,  and 
whom  I  have  seen  placed  by  their  fathers  sit 
ting  straight  in  the  stern  of  a  dory  when  they 
were  three  months  old  —  played  over  my  rocks, 
or  brought  me  blue-tipped  innocence  and  white 
violets  every  year  when  I  returned. 

"You  come  up  with  the  spring  flowers," 
prettily  said  one  imaginative  little  neighbor,  a 
fisherman's  daughter. 

Opposite  my  study  windows,  cruel  and  beau 
tiful  as  any  siren  of  fable,  ran  the  reef  of  Nor 
man's  Woe. 

The  shore  of  Fresh  Water  Cove  made  a  fair, 
green  blush  in  the  gray  outline  of  the  stern 
coast  which  ran  from  Norman's  Woe  to  Pa 
vilion  Beach.  When  I  rowed,  or  was  rowed, 
over  to  it  (it  was  a  good  pull  of  a  mile  and  a 
half  or  more),  if  the  wind  were  up,  or  there 
were  "  short  chops  "  upon  the  harbor,  and  the 
landing  became  a  matter  of  skill,  I  used  always 
to  think  of  the  two  lines  in  an  old  hymn  :  — 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 
Stand  dressed  in  living  green." 

When  the  breeze  struck  from  the  east  or 
southeast,  then  the  whole  length  of  the  west 
ern  shore  of  the  harbor  broke  into  white  fire. 
Hours  were  short  in  watching  this  blaze  of 
foam.  Suddenly  it  shot  up  —  call  it  fifty  feet, 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

call  it  twice  that,  according  to  the  vigor  of  the 
storm  —  in  jets  and  great  tongues  ;  as  if  it  be 
lieved  itself  able  to  lick  the  solid  cliffs  away. 
Seen  through  the  shaking  window  of  my  throb 
bing  little  house,  it  was  easy  to  believe  that  it 
could. 

Perhaps  the  wind  fell,  but  failed  to  die  with 
the  day.  Then  came  on  the  wonder  of  a  stormy 
sunset.  All  Gloucester  harbor  tossed  against 
it.  The  bows  of  the  anchored  fleet  rose  and 
sank  angrily.  The  head-lights  came  out  one 
by  one,  and  flared,  surging  up  and  down.  Ten 
Pound  Light  flashed  out  for  the  night ;  but 
her  blinder  was  on,  towards  us.  The  little 
city,  glorified  now,  forgiven  of  her  fish,  and 
her  dust,  and  her  bouncing  roads,  loved  and 
dreamed  over,  and  sung  in  heart  and  pen, 
melted  all  through  her  pretty  outlines  against 
the  massive  colors  of  the  west. 

Then,  off  Eastern  Point,  far  to  the  left, 
where  the  shadow  fell,  sprang  out  the  red, 
revolving  flash  of  Cape  Ann  Light. 

The  fishermen's  children  are  in  their  beds  ; 
the  rocks  are  quiet,  but  for  the  cannonade  of 
the  surf.  Shut  away  from  the  world,  shut  in 
with  the  sea,  I  light  my  lonely  fire,  and  thank 
God  for  my  own  hearth,  and  for  Gloucester 
shore. 

I  had  a  little  dog  in  those  days.  With  the 
196 


THE   OLD   MAIDS'   PARADISE 

lady  who  mothered  my  home,  and  the  maid 
who  served  it,  he  formed  "  my  family  ; "  we 
three  sat  in  the  windows,  and  heard  the  sum 
mer  people  —  as  they  grew,  alas,  in  force  — 
pass  by  our  chalet,  chatting  busily.  Often 
their  talk  would  be  of  us. 

The  name  of  that  dog,  by  the  way,  was 
Daniel  Deronda ;  and  one  day  it  fell  to  me, 
with  my  own  ears,  to  overhear  these  authenti 
cated  words  :  — 

"  Mamma  ? "  It  was  a  little  fellow  who 
spoke,  tugging  at  his  mother's  fingers  as  he 
scrambled  over  the  boulders.  "  Mamma,  I 
want  to  know ;  —  is  this  where  the  Derondas 
live  ?  " 

Such  was  human  fame ;  and  such  will  it 
ever  be  !  The  eyes  that  see  us,  see  with  their 
own  natures  and  from  their  own  focus  ;  not 
from  ours  or  with  ours.  Worse  might  befall 
me  than  to  be  known  as  one  of  the  Derondas. 

I  looked  solemnly  at  the  little  dog  (he  was 
the  only  masculine  member  of  the  household), 
and  said  :  — 

"  It  is  the  doom  of  women,  Dan.  Seven 
pounds  of  your  lordly  sex  —  and  with  bangs 
down  to  his  nose,  into  the  bargain  —  orders 
our  identity  away  from  us.  We  must  make 
the  best  of  it,  Dan  ;  and  you  and  I  know  that 
it 's  all  the  same  in  the  end." 
197 


GLOUCESTER 

LIFE  at  Gloucester  began  very  much  as 
ether  life  begins  in  the  first  delightful  pos 
session  of  one's  "ain  fireside."  Is  happiness 
essentially  selfish  ?  For  some  years  after  my 
cottage  was  built  I  surrendered  my  summers 
to  the  luxury  of  entertaining.  I  remember 
those  as  the  years  of  the  friends.  I  was  slow 
in  asking  whether  the  North  Shore  had  other 
claims  upon  me  than  those  of  giving  pleasure 
to  other  comfortable  people,  and  receiving  more 
than  I  gave.  Having  waited,  apparently  long 
enough  for  me  to  ask,  fate  abruptly  told  me 
without  the  formality  of  a  question. 

One  summer  evening,  in  a  year  of  whose 
date  I  cannot  be  sure,  except  that  it  was  in 
the  seventies,  I  was  driving  with  a  friend 
through  the  main  street  of  East  Gloucester. 
It  was  after  tea,  and  a  sky,  translucent  over 
head,  was  burning  down  towards  the  west, 
preparing  for  one  of  the  famous  Gloucester 
sunsets. 

We  were  driving  through  a  weir  of  stores  and 
198 


GLOUCESTER 

fish-firms  and  fish-flakes — this  last,  it  should 
be  said,  is  the  technical  name  for  the  frames 
or  trellises  on  which  salt  fish  is  dried.  For 
Gloucester,  it  must  be  understood,  is  the  most 
important  fishing  port  in  the  world,  and  Fish, 
whether  dead  or  living,  is  always  spelled  there 
with  a  capital.  In  fact,  there  is  a  dignity 
about  this  form  of  commerce,  upon  which,  to 
the  reduction  of  most  other  kinds  of  interests, 
Gloucester  insists.  Her  summer  guests  may 
come  and  go,  may  pay  or  not,  may  criticise 
or  adore,  but  her  fish  bite  on  forever.  The 
result  of  my  own  observation  has  been  that 
Gloucester,  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  regards  her 
large  summer  population  with  a  certain  con 
tempt.  We  are  weak  on  the  topics  of  main- 
sheets,  and  jib-hanks,  of  blocks  and  "popple- 
ballast,"  and  seines.  We  are  not  learned  in 
the  times  when  herring  strike  and  mackerel 
are  due.  We  cannot  man  a  Grand  Banker  in 
a  gale.  We  do  not  go  "  haddockin'  "  in  March. 
We  do  not  pack  "  Cape  Ann  turkey  "  to  the 
limits  Of  the  globe.  Our  incomes,  if  we  have 
any,  are  drawn  from  invisible  sources  looked 
upon  with  instinctive  suspicion.  They  are  nei 
ther  caught  with  a  hook  nor  salted  in  a  box, 
nor  telephoned  to  the  Board  of  Trade  when  the 
cargoes  come  in.  We  are  more  or  less  idle 
folk,  who  wander  about  the  streets,  (who  knows 
199 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

why  ?)  or  sun  ourselves  stupidly  on  the  red 
and  purple  rocks,  or  dig  for  clams  on  the 
beaches  at  high  tide,  or  exasperate  the  farmers 
by  trampling  down  the  hay,  and  letting  the 
cattle  into  the  apple-orchards.  We  are  artists, 
whose  crop  of  white  umbrellas  sprouts  every 
where,  and  bothers  everybody,  and  whose 
brushes  do  not  know  a  back-stay  from  corn- 
silk.  We  are  boarders  who  capsize  the  cat- 
boats,  or  pay  by  the  hour  to  sail  in  a  calm  and 
don't  know  any  better ;  cottagers  who  create 
homes  in  extraordinary  localities  hitherto  little 
respected  ;  or  even  writers  who  put  Gloucester 
adoringly  into  the  magazines  out  of  the  im 
pulses  of  our  loyal  and  loving  hearts,  and  are 
hated  accordingly  of  all  men  for  the  tribute's 
sake. 

Perhaps  every  line  of  this  page  may  cost  its 
writer  a  friend  in  Gloucester  —  who  can  tell  ? 
Yet  I  mean  only  gracious  things  by  the  dear 
old  place,  which  I  have  loved  for  twenty  years. 
I  devoutly  believe  and  firmly  proclaim  that 
Gloucester  Harbor  is  the  most  adorable  spot 
in  this  part  of  the  world  in  which  to  spend  the 
summer ;  and  that  he  who  has  never  known 
her  Junes  and  her  Septembers,  her  wonderful 
downs  (said  to  be  the  only  specimens  of  the 
real  thing  on  our  coast),  the  warm  heart  of  her 
fishing-folk,  and  the  colors  of  her  waves,  seen 

200 


f  ••*«  l 


GLOUCESTER 

returning  from  afternoon  sails  in  a  light  South- 
wester,  misses  something  out  of  life,  which  the 
next  will  remind  him  that  he  lacks.  I  am 
aware  that  this  is  a  strong  statement,  and 
beyond  it  I  cannot  go.  This  does  not  mean 
that  I  am  unconscious  of  the  faults  in  the 
loveliest  of  places,  though  for  love's  sake  I 
may  pass  them  lightly  by. 

All  seaport  towns  drink.  I  do  not  know  if 
Gloucester  be  any  thirstier  than  other  places 
of  her  kind.  I  like  to  think  not  —  but,  on  the 
summer  evening  of  which  I  speak,  it  first  came 
to  my  thought  or  knowledge  that  this  little  city 
seethed  with  tempted  men,  having  peculiar 
difficulties  and  dangers  and  needing  peculiar 
treatment. 

As  we  drove  through  the  chief  street  of  East 
Gloucester,  we  saw  a  crowd  thickening  before 
us  in  front  of  a  store  or  shop,  whose  existence 
I  did  not  remember  to  have  observed  before. 
It  was  a  large  crowd  for  a  small  place,  and 
evidently  under  intense  excitement.  All  along 
the  sides  of  the  street  women  who  did  not  join 
it  came  to  their  doors  and  looked  out  soberly. 
They  were  white  to  the  lips,  every  woman  of 
them  ;  some  of  them  shook  their  fists  in  the 
direction  of  the  crowd ;  some  wept,  some 
seemed  to  curse,  and  some  to  pray. 

"  If  men  folks  will  do  such  things,  they 
201 


CHAPTERS  FROM  A  LIFE 

must  expect  such  things  to  happen  !  "  cried  one 
matron. 

"  I  hope  they  '11  raze  the  place  to  the 
ground  !  I  hope  they  '11  fire  it  to  ashes  !  I 
hope  they  won't  leave  stick  nor  stone  of  it  till 
morning  !  "  said  another,  in  the  deep  tones  of 
irreproachable  anathema. 

I  had  stopped  my  horse,  and  begged  to  be 
told  what  had  happened ;  but  it  was  some  time 
before  the  women  paid  attention  enough  to  me 
to  answer  my  question.  I  was  only  a  "  summer 
boarder,"  alien  to  them,  and  to  the  sorrows  of 
their  lives.  I  was  of  far  less  importance  to 
them  than  the  school  of  mackerel  which  en 
tered  or  swam  past  Gloucester  Harbor;  one 
might  easily  say  of  less  than  the  barnacles  on 
the  old  piers. 

"  Have  n't   you   heard  ? "  said  a  woman  at 

last,   scornfully.     "  Why,  it  happened  in 

's  rum-shop." 

Now,  I  had  been  in  East  Gloucester  more 
summers  than  I  cared  just  then  to  remember, 
and  never  till  that  moment  had  I  known  that 

had  a  rum-shop  in  the  centre  of  the 

town. 

"  There 's  a  man  murdered  there,"  continued 
the  speaker  more  gently,  observing  perhaps 
the  expression  of  my  face.  "  He  's  just  dead. 
Him  and  this  other  fellar  had  words,  and  he 

202 


GLOUCESTER 

drove  a  knife  into  him  and  out  again  three 
times.  He  's  stone  dead,  layin'  there  on  the 
floor.  .  .  .  See  the  men  folks  crowdin'  round 
to  look  at  him  !  If  men  folks  will  do  such 
things,  they  must  expect  such  things  to  hap 
pen  !  I  hope  they  won't  leave  stick  nor  stone 
to  that  place,  come  mornin'  ! " 

"  Was  he  a  married  man  ? " 

"  She  lives  up  to  the  Block,  and  the  young 
ones." 

"  How  many  ? " 

"Twelve." 

"  Has  anybody  been  to  see  this  poor  crea 
ture  —  the  widow  ?  Has  any  woman  gone  to 
her?" 

"  Hey  ?  "  staring.  "  I  guess  not.  Not  that 
I  know  of." 

I  turned  my  horse  and  drove  straight  to  the 
smitten  family.  My  friend  (who  had  the  worst 
of  it)  kindly  agreed  to  sit  in  the  carriage  among 
the  gathering  people  while  I  went  into  the  ten 
ement.  I  felt  like  thanking  her  warmly,  for 
it  would  have  been  easy  to  make  that  little  de 
cision  hard  for  me ;  or  to  turn  my  own  mind 
in  the  trembling  of  a  choice,  upon  which,  I 
came  to  think  afterwards,  a  good  deal  that  may 
have  been  important  swung. 

I  went  in.  It  was  like  other  places  of  its 
kind,  neither  better  nor  worse.  Such  homes 
203 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

were  not  unfamiliar  to  me,  but  I  had  never 
entered  one  before  on  such  an  errand.  To 
my  selfish  relief  I  found  that  some  news- 
bearer  had  preceded  me,  and  that  it  did  not 
devolve  upon  me  to  break  the  tidings  to  the 
widow.  She  was  pacing  up  and  down  the 
dark,  close  rooms  like  a  large  creature  in  a 
very  little  cage.  She  uttered  strange,  mo 
notonous  shrieks.  She  did  not  notice  my  en 
trance.  In  fact,  no  one  paid  any  attention  to 
me.  The  twelve  (I  think  it  was  twelve)  chil 
dren,  in  various  stages  of  grief  and  fright,  were 
scattered  about.  Her  oldest  son  leaned  against 
the  wall,  and  looked  helplessly  at  the  screaming 
woman.  She  wailed,  —  "  Oh,  ain't  it  hard  ? 
ain't  it,  ain't  it  ?  " 

A  neighbor  came  in,  a  big,  red  woman,  and 

offered  consolation  in  this  form  :  "  Mis' ! 

Mis' !  Be  still  now,  there,  and  have  the 

patience  of  God  !  " 

This  modest  and  moderate  demand,  strange 
to  say,  was  disregarded  by  the  afflicted  crea 
ture,  who  moaned  on  pitifully. 

I  was  an  uninvited  guest  in  that  stricken 
household,  and  it  seems  like  a  breach  of  some 
thing  for  which  we  have  no  precise  name  for 
me  to  dwell  too  far  upon  the  details  of  such  a 
scene  as  no  spectator  could  easily  forget  or 
describe.  In  point  of  fact,  nothing  and  no- 
204 


GLOUCESTER 

body  quieted  the  woman  ;  and  so  I  went  up, 
saying  no  words  at  all,  and  took  her  in  my 
arms. 

For  a  little  her  wailing  continued  steadily  ; 
then  I  saw,  at  last,  that  her  eyes  had  fallen 
upon  my  gloves.  They  were  white,  like  the 
rest  of  my  dress  ;  the  room  was  heavy  with 
the  advancing  dusk,  and  I  suppose  they  made 
a  spot  of  light,  by  which  her  frenzied  sight 
was  arrested.  Her  sobbing  broke  ;  she  turned, 
and  looked  up  into  my  face.  Still  I  did  not 
speak,  but  only  held  her  quietly.  .  .  . 

I  stayed  with  her  till  the  body  was  brought 
home,  and  then  we  drove  away.  As  we  turned 
into  the  main  street,  I  heard  low  cries  from 
the  people :  "  There  he  is !  There  he  is  ! 
They  Ve  caught  him  !  They  Ve  got  the  mur 
derer  !  He  ran  and  hid  down  to  the  water  — 
but  there  he  is  ! " 

A  carryall  rapidly  driven,  and  closely  guarded 
by  officers,  passed  us.  The  sunset  was  dying, 
and  against  a  cold  streak  of  wintry  color,  be 
yond  the  western  shore  of  the  harbor,  I  saw 
the  profile  of  the  murderer ;  as  pale  as  that 
other  face  which  I  had  left  with  a  woman  wail 
ing  over  it.  He  was  a  very  young  man,  they 
told  me,  and  came  of  a  self-respecting  family. 

I  had  read,  of  course,  like  other  intelligent 

people,  of  women  who  entered  rum-shops  on 
205 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

moral  and  religious  errands ;  in  fact,  I  think 
once  in  Andover,  when  I  was  a  very  young 
lady,  I  personally  besought  a  liquor-seller  in 
behalf  of  some  ruined  family  in  which  I  was 
interested,  to  abandon  the  error  of  his  ways ; 
he  received  me  politely  and  continued  them 
steadily.  But  as  for  what  is  known  in  this 
country  as  the  Temperance  Movement,  it  was 
as  unfamiliar  to  me  as  the  gossip  of  Tahiti.  I 
was  reared  in  circles  which  pursued  their  own 
proportion  of  Christian  charity  in  their  own 
ways,  and  which  knew  but  little  of  this  form 
of  ethical  progress.  In  a  word,  I  was  without 
education  for  that  kind  of  service  to  humanity ; 
and  I  had,  hitherto,  paid  no  more  attention  to 
it  than  any  woman  of  society.  In  fact,  if  the 
truth  were  to  be  told,  I  had,  perhaps,  little 
more  confidence  in  the  wisdom  of  its  prevail 
ing  methods.  Ignorance  is  always  prejudice, 
and  I  was  prejudiced  in  proportion  to  mine. 

That  Gloucester  murder,  and  the  short  sun 
set  hour  which  I  spent  in  that  devastated 
home,  did  for  me  what  all  the  temperance  con 
ventions  and  crusades  of  America,  generated 
by  braver  and  broader-minded  women  than  I, 
had  failed  to  do.  All  my  traditions  went  down, 
and  my  common  sense  and  human  heart  came 
up.  From  that  day  "  I  asked  no  questions  ;  I 
had  no  replies  ; "  but  gave  my  sympathy  with- 
206 


GLOUCESTER 

out  paltry  hesitation  to  the  work  done  by  the 
women  of  America  for  the  salvation  of  men 
endangered  or  ruined  by  the  liquor  habit. 

"  I  am  going  into  that  rum-shop  next  Sun-     \y 
day,"  I  announced,  "  to  hold  a  service.'* 

"  You  ?  "  My  friends  stared  at  me  anxiously. 
Would  two  physicians  and  the  legal  certificate 
of  incarceration  be  needed  shortly  ?  After 
wards  I  remembered  how  they  looked.  At 
the  time  I  scarcely  noticed  it,  but  proceeded 
on  my  way  with  the  absorption  of  all  young 
reformers  in  a  new  enthusiasm. 

Of  course  my  first  step  was  to  visit  the  bar 
tender.  I  was  received  with  drawing-room 
politeness.  He  was  more  than  willing  that  I 
should  hold  a  religious  service  in  his  saloon. 
He  was,  I  thought,  personally  very  grateful. 
He  felt  the  odium  under  which  he  stood.  He 
was  pale  and  perturbed.  He  welcomed  me 
with  significant  cordiality.  Indeed,  I  think  he 
looked  upon  me  for  the  moment  as  his  individ-  0/1 
ual  savior  from  social  downfall.  It  had  not 
occurred  to  me  that  I  was  enlisting  my  ener 
gies  to  protect  the  rum-seller,  and  I  must  say 
that  this  amusing  view  of  the  situation  rather 
staggered  me.  But,  concluding  to  ignore  it 
gracefully,  I  went  on  with  my  plan  for  the 
Sunday. 

"  You'll  say,  won't  you,"  pleaded  the  dealer 

207 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

in  death,  "that  this  ain't  my  fault  ?  You'll  tell 
'em  it  might  have  happened  anywhere,  won't 
you  ?  Why,  it  might  have  happened  in  a 
church  !  There  's  murders  do.  You  '11  say  so  ; 
won't  you,  ma'am  ?  " 

Without  committing  myself  on  this  delicate 
point,  I  arranged  our  little  programme,  secur 
ing  the  help  of  a  lovely  gray-haired  "  lady  from 
Philadelphia  "  —  for  this  was  in  the  days  when 
my  own  hair  was  still  so  dark  that  I  liked  to 
be  mothered  a  little  in  difficult  positions.  We 
went  into  the  saloon  the  next  Sunday  and 
opened  our  short  services.  Now,  my  com 
panion  had  been  trained  by  Phillips  Brooks  in 
his  younger  pastorate,  and  she  was  far  better 
qualified  than  I  to  conduct  the  service.  But 
with  the  pertinacity  of  gentle  women  she  re 
fused.  She  would  read,  she  would  sing,  she 
would  help,  but  speak  she  would  not. 

"  You  will  not  ?  "  pleaded  I,  "  but  I  cannot. 
I  never  opened  my  mouth  in  a  public  place 
in  my  life.  I  shall  drop  of  stage  fright  —  and 
think  of  the  scene  !  It  will  be  little  less  excit 
ing  than  the  murder.  I  am  a  coward  born, 
bred,  and  graduated  on  this  point.  It  is  mor 
ally  impossible  for  me  to  speak  in  that  or  any 
other  place." 

But  I  prevailed  nothing  against  her,  and 
speak  I  had  to. 

208 


GLOUCESTER 

The  saloon  was  of  course  packed.  It  over 
flowed  to  the  porch,  and  into  the  street,  and 
back  through  the  three  little  rooms  within 
rooms,  which,  according  to  my  limited  obser 
vation,  seem  to  characterize  the  grog-shops  of 
our  native  land ;  an  architectural  peculiarity 
into  whose  causes  or  effects  I  have  never 
penetrated. 

There  were  a  few  women  there  to  sing  for 
us,  and  certain  of  the  wives  of  the  men  who 
frequented  the  shop  ;  but  our  hearers  were 
chiefly  men,  and  precisely  the  men  who  were 
the  usual  customers  of  this  and  kindred  places. 
A  great,  red  stain  in  the  floor  was  covered 
from  sight  by  the  crowd. 

To  say  that  the  audience  was  respectful  is 
to  say  little  enough.  If  we  had  been  angels 
from  the  clouds  or  courts  of  heaven,  we  could 
not  have  been  received  with  more  deference, 
more  delicacy,  or  more  attention.  To  say  that 
no  disturbance  of  any  kind  took  place  is  again 
to  say  too  little  for  the  occasion.  Not  a  foot 
stirred,  not  a  lip  whispered  ;  indeed,  it  is  quite 
within  bounds  to  say  that  not  an  eye  wan 
dered.  We  read  a  little  —  not  too  much  — 
from  the  Bible,  and  we  sang  a  hymn  or  two, 
and  I  said  a  few  words,  and  we  came  away. 
Those  men  listened  to  us  as  if  they  had  never 
heard  a  message  of  mercy  before  in  all  their 
209 


CHAPTERS    FROM  A   LIFE 

lives,  and  never  might  again.  I  remember 
that  some  of  them  hung  their  heads  upon  their 
breasts  like  guilty  children,  and  that  they 
looked  ashamed  and  sorry ;  but  most  of  them 
met  us  in  the  eye,  and  drank  what  we  said 
thirstily.  Their  attention  and  gravity  amounted 
to  solemnity,  and  had  the  appearance  of  reso 
lution.  But  of  that,  who  can  testify  ? 

We  did  not  too  much  blame  these  men  ; 
they  had  reasons  for  getting  drunk,  which  life 
had  never  made  apparent  to  us  :  nor  did  we 
berate  the  rum-seller ;  we  were  his  guests. 
We  read  and  spoke  to  them  of  better  things ; 
that  was  all.  I  remember  that  we  read  from 
the  Revelation  about  the  dead,  great  and  small, 
who  stand  before  God  to  be  judged  ;  and  I  can 
never  forget  how  these  men  looked,  as  I  laid 
down  my  father's  Bible,  with  those  words. 

Life  has  given  and  withheld  much  from  me 
that  has  been  or  has  seemed  to  be  rich  and 
valuable.  It  has  never  given  me  another  hour 
when  I  felt  that  I  had  found  the  chief  privilege 
of  existence,  as  I  felt  when  I  forgot  myself  and 
pleaded  with  Heaven  for  those  miserable  men  ; 
nor  has  it  withheld  much  that  I  should  have 
treasured  more  than  the  power  to  continue  my 
happy  work  among  them. 

It  lasted  for  but  three  years.  Though  it 
began,  it  'did  not  seem  to  begin  with  the 

210 


GLOUCESTER 

murder  ;  for,  after  a  few  Sundays  our  services 
in  the  saloon  came  to  an  end.  The  bartender's 
religious  character  was  not  prominently  devel 
oped,  and  his  hospitality  cooled  as  the  excite 
ment  waned.  Not  wishing  to  intrude  upon  it, 
—  for,  after  all,  the  rum  was  his,  and  the  legal 
right  to  sell  it,  —  we  devoted  ourselves  for  a 
little  to  the  concerns  of  the  fatherless  family, 
and  returned  to  the  normal  course  of  summer 
existence.  Without  were  drunkards  and  mur 
derers,  and  we  thought  of  them  no  more. 

I  thought  of  them  no  more,  at  least  not 
then.  But  God's  lessons  are  not  lost  so  easily 
as  that.  The  next  year,  when  the  Old  Maids' 
Paradise  was  opened  for  the  season,  a  person 
indistinctly  known  to  our  domestic  world  as 
"  the  vegetable  man  "  one  day  quietly  made 
his  way  from  the  back  door  to  the  front,  and 
boldly  demanded  that  I  should  visit  the  Re 
form  Club  and  give  a  Temperance  lecture.  If 
he  had  asked  me  to  discover  the  North  Pole 
in  a  Gloucester  dory,  I  should  have  been  less 
astounded  ;  perhaps  less  shocked.  In  vain  did 
I  reason  that  I  did  not  know  what  a  Reform 
Club  was  ;  that  I  was  not,  and  never  might, 
could,  would,  or  should  be  a  lecturer,  and  that 
a  Temperance  lecturer  was  a  being  so  apart 
from  my  nature  and  qualifications  that  I  was 
better  fitted  to  salt  fish  upon  the  wharves  than 

211 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

to  assume  the  position  which  I  was  desired 
to  fill.  The  petitioner  was  dogged,  obstinate, 
ingenious,  and  respectful.  It  seemed  the  or 
ganization  which  he  represented,  having  heard 
of  the  rum-shop  services,  had  appointed  a  com 
mittee  to  request  my  presence  in  the  appalling 
capacity  specified,  and  no  for  an  answer  these 
enthusiasts  declined  to  take. 

"I  do  not  lecture,"  I  persisted,  "but  I  will 
come  up  to  your  club-room  and  help  you  some 
how." 

Thus  compromising  with  my  fate,  I  rode  up 
in  the  vegetable  man's  carryall  to  the  club- 
room,  and  I  left  it  that  first  evening  the  firm 
friend  of  those  struggling  men  and  women, 
and  of  all  like  them,  in  hard  positions  and  in 
service  like  theirs  forever. 

The  little  local  organization  with  which  I 
was  concerned  had,  in  some  respects,  an  ex 
ceptional  history,  but  it  belonged  to  a  great 
class  of  its  kind  at  that  time  popular  with  the 
mass  of  our  people,  and  unquestionably  use 
ful  in  stimulating  a  taste  for  decent  ways  of 
living  among  that  proportion  of  our  fellow- 
citizens  whom  the  liquor  traffic  disgraces  and 
ruins.  Having  become  once  convinced  that 
the  method  —  however  foreign  to  my  taste  and 
to  my  training  —  was  sound  and  sensible  ;  was, 
in  fact,  so  much  wiser  and  greater  than  my 

212 


GLOUCESTER 

ignorance  or  timidity,  that  it  commanded  my 
respect  as  well  as  my  conscience,  of  course 
I  had  no  choice  but  to  give  myself  to  the 
principle,  and  try  to  improve  its  practice,  if  I 
might.  As  our  Methodist  friends  would  say, 
I  "  followed  the  leading,"  and  I  never  regret 
ted  it. 

For  three  years  I  had  the  great  happiness 
of  serving  the  people  who  had  needed  and 
selected  me.  There  and  then,  if  ever,  I  be 
came  acquainted  with  life.  I  learned  more 
from  my  Gloucester  people  than  I  ever  taught 
them,  and  I  shall  hold  them  gratefully  and 
lovingly  in  my  heart  as  long  as  I  live. 

The  pathetic  battle  of  those  tempted  men 
with  themselves  ;  the  hardships  of  the  fisher 
men,  shipped  for  midwinter  voyages  ;  —  rum 
on  the  wharves  and  rum  on  the  vessel,  mocking 
the  vow  of  the  newly-sobered  man  ;  the  distrusts 
and  jealousies  and  obstacles  flung  in  the  way 
of  "  reformed  men  "  by  their  own  mates,  or  by 
respectable  citizens  who  ought  to  have  sunk 
to  their  knees  with  shame  for  deeds  that  I 
have  known  to  be  done  ;  and  the  persistent 
unpopularity  of  our  efforts,  an  unpopularity 
that  is  known  to  all  movements  everywhere 
in  the  pursuance  of  what  is  called  the  tem 
perance  work,  —  such  things  one  remembers 
when  the  easy  side  of  existence  is  forgotten. 
213 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

In  the  ultimate  valuation  of  life,  when  soul  and 
body  are  "  put  to  the  question,"  one  may  no 
longer  feel  concern  about  the  creation  of  a 
style,  or  the  verity  of  a  literary  school,  or  the 
importance  of  a  light  touch  ;  one  may  not  re 
call  the  brilliant  conversers  of  the  choicest 
society  one  has  known  and  valued  ;  possibly, 
even  precious  passion  of  study  on  sheltered 
winter  days  by  open  fires  among  one's  dearest 
books,  and  with  one's  highest  masters,  may 
pass  :  —  who  can  tell  ? 

I  think  there  are  things  that  will  not  pass, 

—  the  look  of  a  manly  fellow  when  he  has  been 
sober  for  two  years  ;  the  expression  in  the  eyes 
of  his  wife,  and  a  word  or  two  she  said ;  the 
sobs  of  a  man  who  had  "  broken  his  pledge," 
and  begged  for  his  soul's  life  to  be  saved  (a 
vulgar  incident  I  grant  you  !     Did  I  claim  that 
it  was  "  Literature  "  ?) ;  the  eyes  of  the  men 
when  they  stopped  in  the  middle  of  an  oath 
upon  the  wharves,  and  came   in  and  finished 
the  hymn  that  we  were  singing  in  the  club- 
room  ;   and   oh,  the  way  the   women   looked ! 

—  these  common  scenes  may  last  when  every 
other  brain-cell  but  those  retaining  them  and 
such  as  they,  has  given  back  its  impression  to 
the  great  Engraver. 

Touching  beyond  words  were  the  appeals  of 
the  women.     One,  I  remember,  walked  miles 
214 


GLOUCESTER 

to  my  house,  —  and  she  was  quite  unfit  for  walk 
ing,  —  to  beg  me,  in  their  superstitious  way, 
to  "stop  her  husband  drinking."  For  I  was 
sometimes  accosted  on  the  street  by  strange 
men,  who  would  detain  me  respectfully  to  say  : 
"  I  hear  when  you  talk  to  folks  they  stop 
drinkin' ;  I  wish  you  'd  talk  to  me  !  " 

This  woman  pulled  up  her  sleeve  and  showed 
me  big,  purple  bruises  on  her  beautiful  arm 
and  shoulder.  "  He 's  always  kind  when  he  's 
sober,"  she  urged,  "  but  I  wish  you  'd  talk  to 
him.  He  peeked  in  at  the  window  last  night 
at  the  club  to  see  you.  He  said  he  see  you, 
and  you  was  readin'  something  out  of  a  book. 
He  said  he  wanted  to  go  in  and  listen,  but 
he  dassent,  for  he  felt  ashamed.  So  he  come 
home,  and  throwed  himself  on  the  lounge,  and 
put  his  hands  acrosst  his  eyes  and  groaned,  as 
if  he  was  hurted  in  an  accident,  and  he  says,  — 

"  '  Jane,  I  wisht  I  was  a  better  man ; '  an'  I 
says,"- 

"  *  Tom,  I  wisht  you  was  ! '  and  he  says  he  'd 
like  to  have  you  talk  to  him  —  so  I  come 
down.  First  I  thought  I  'd  go  to  Mrs.  Caesar 
Augustus  Smith,  but  he  did  n't  say  anything 
about  Mrs.  Caesar  Augustus  Smith  —  an'  so  I 
come  to  you.  For  he  never  hits  me  when  he 's 
sober,  and  he  likes  the  baby,  and  so  I  thought 
I  'd  come." 

215 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

Speaking  of  literature,  I  remember  a  bit  of 
pure  eloquence,  which  I  heard  from  one  of  our 
men  one  evening.  He  was  a  fine  fellow  —  or 
was  meant  to  be ;  a  tall,  well-looking  man,  with 
a  good  head,  and  something  in  it.  He  drank 
till  he  was  fifty,  then  stopped  —  slipped  a  few 
times  —  but  died  sober.  He  had  never  been 
a  man  of  many  words  on  matters  of  religious 
belief,  and  was  popularly  credited  with  a  tinge 
of  awful  skepticism.  When  one  day,  there 
fore,  he  quietly  announced  to  his  mates  in  our 
little  organization  his  purpose  to  sympathize 
with  the  more  religious  aspects  of  its  work, 
the  incident  created  a  furore.  The  man's  mo 
tives  were  immediately  and  bitterly  impugned. 
Few  of  his  neighbors  but  questioned  his  sin 
cerity.  It  would  be  difficult  to  make  one  un 
familiar  with  just  such  forms  of  service  among 
precisely  such  people,  understand  the  large 
temporary  importance  of  small  events  like 
these. 

The  next  week  our  "reformed  man"  rose 
serenely  in  the  little  chapel  and  said  this  only : 
"  I  understand  that  my  sincerity  has  been 
doubted  in  what  I  said  here  last  week  —  that  I 
meant  to  be  a  better  man,  and  that  I  should 
like  to  live  a  different  life.  I  want  to  say 
this  :  If  my  old  neighbors  cannot  forget  my 
past,  I  have  been  taught  to  believe  that  Christ 
216 


GLOUCESTER 

can"     For   clear  "  persuasion   of   speech "    I 
have  seldom  heard  that  surpassed. 

It  occurs  to  me  that  I  have  said  more  of  the 
obstacles  than  of  the  aids  to  our  work  among 
the  Gloucester  drunkards  ;  and  far  be  it  from 
me  to  fall  into  that  coarseness  of  heart  which 
is  more  conscious  of  the  absence  than  of  the 
presence  of  human  sympathy.  It  was  invigo-^ 
rating  to  me  at  the  time  ;  and  as  I  look  back 
upon  it  from  this  distance,  it  seems  to  have 
been  extraordinary  that  we  received  so  much 
assistance  from  sources  outside  of  the  bound 
ary  of  local  interest.  I  used  often  to  be  asked 
to  drive  down  the  North  Shore  and  tell  the  sum 
mer  people  what  we  were  doing  for  the  fisher 
men.  These  parlor  talks  always  resulted  in 
something  less  evasive  than  pleasant  words. 
Generous  and  hearty  to  a  surprising  degree 
were  the  contributions  to  our  always  clamorous 
needs  from  people  to  whose  tastes  and  experi 
ence  our  work  was  quite  foreign.  Our  stead 
iest  help  came  from  a  life-long  invalid  whose 
noble  heart  never  failed  to  reply  to  the  suffer 
ing  of  the  world  from  which  she  was  shut  in. 

It  is  so  easy  to  doubt  the  humanity  of  the 
easy  classes  ;  flings  at  the  hardness  of  wealth 
and  social  position  are  so  common  and  so  often 
unjust  that  I  am  glad  to  take  this  chance  to 
testify  to  the  warm  hearts,  the  generous  im- 
217 


CHAPTERS  FROM  A  LIFE 

pulses,  the  lavish  purses,  and  the  sincere  sym 
pathy  which  I  found  only  waiting  for  the  op 
portunity  to  pour  themselves  upon  a  need  in 
whose  reality  they  could  trust.  The  thing 
which  interested  me  in  this  especial  case  was 
that  so  much  of  this  practical  cordiality  came 
from  the  people  who  had  the  smallest  natural 
amount  of  sympathy  with  the  religious  aspect 
of  what  we  were  doing. 

I  remember  one  day,  sitting  alone  in  my 
little  study  by  the  harbor,  that  I  heard  the 
tap-tapping  of  a  very  small,  pointed  feminine 
heel  upon  the  rocks,  and  that  the  shadow  of 
a  little  lady  suddenly  darkened  the  door.  I 
knew  her  at  a  glance  for  one  of  the  queens  of 
that  phase  of  society  which  we  still  call  fash 
ionable.  She  was,  in  fact,  a  very  gay  little 
lady  —  and  remains  so.  She  came  in  quite 
soberly  and  gently,  and  began  to  talk  with  me 
about  the  Gloucester  fishermen,  asking  the 
most  appreciative  and  intelligent  questions  ;  I 
wondered  at  them.  Her  boys,  she  said,  wanted 
to  put  a  set  of  standard  novels  in  the  library  of 
our  club-room.  When  she  went  away  she  left 
substantial  evidence  of  —  what  was  it  ?  A  mo 
ment's  sympathy  ?  An  hour's  genuineness  ? 
A  movement  of  regret,  or  of  resolve  ?  Who 
can  say  ?  Perhaps  this  gay  benefactress  was  do 
ing  a  bit  of  penance  of  her  own  ?  It  is  possible. 
218 


THE   HOUSE   AT   GLOUCESTER 


GLOUCESTER 

Did  I  feei  at  liberty  to  use  her  name,  a  large 
portion  of  the  gay  world  would  appreciate  the 
incident.  But,  for  myself,  whenever  I  hear  this 
little  lady,  as  one  sometimes  does,  criticised 
for  her  merry-making  at  life,  I  recall  that 
afternoon  at  Gloucester.  I  hear  the  tapping 
of  the  tiny  heels  upon  my  rocks.  I  see  the 
sober  face,  chastened  with  a  look  never  seen 
in  the  drawing-rooms,  where  she  rules  it  whim 
sically  and  royally.  I  hear  an  accent  of  some 
thing  like  perplexity,  like  wonder,  like  appeal, 
like  reverence  in  her  elaborate  voice,  —  and  I 
am  silent;  for  my  thoughts  of  her  are  kind, 
"  long  thoughts." 

To  this  little  group  of  puzzled  and  tempted 
people,  for  whom  my  heart  was  full,  at  my 
audacious  request,  came  Phillips  Brooks.  In 
deed,  he  came  not  once,  but  twice,  in  the  busi 
est  part  of  his  year,  and  preached  to  us  ;  once 
in  September  —  and  again,  I  think,  in  March. 
I  know  that  the  Indian  summer  was  on  the 
harbor  at  the  time  of  his  first  visit,  and  that 
the  snow  lay  heavily  upon  the  narrow  streets 
when  he  came  again. 

Take  it  altogether,  this  is  the  pleasantest 
memory  which  I  have  of  the  great  preacher. 
He  lent  himself  to  those  little  people  with 
luxurious  heartiness.  He  had  that  gracious 
way  of  conferring  a  favor,  as  if  he  were  its 
219 


CHAPTERS  FROM   A   LIFE 

recipient.  In  fact,  he  seemed  to  enjoy  the 
two  sermons  preached  to  that  handful  of  fisher 
men  —  outside  of  his  own  church  connections, 
outside  of  the  trend  of  his  own  work,  and  per 
haps  a  little  strange  to  his  experience  of  audi 
ences  —  as  much  as  any  which  I  ever  heard 
from  his  lips. 

Of  course  our  people  were  touched  with  the 
hojioiLwhich  he  did  them ;  and  they  thronged 
the  hall,  or  audience  room.  The  wharves  and 
the  streets  and  the  fleets  poured  out  a  mighty 
delegation  ;  Trinity  Church  never  gave  him 
more  devout  attention.  It  was  a  beautiful 
sight. 

Now,  one  thing  I  noticed.  In  the  course  of 
his  two  sermons  given  to  those  drunkards  and 
fishermen,  the  preacher  alluded  to  the  object 
for  which  we  were  united  but  a  single  time. 
Then  he  said  :  "  There  are  men  who  give  up 
the  beautiful  possibilities  of  life  to  low  sins, 
and  —  drunkenness}'  He  drew  himself  to  his 
superb  height,  and  brought  out  that  one  word 
with  an  accent  of  glorious  scorn.  The  tempted 
men  lowered  their  eyes  before  it.  It  scathed 
them  harder  than  hours  of  denunciation,  and 
moved  them  more  than  pages  of  appeal. 
220 


XI 

EDWARD  ROWLAND  SILL  : 

GARDEN  IN  CAROLINA 

DISTINCTLY,  in  fact  almost  entirely  with 
Gloucester,  I  find  interwoven  my  recollections 
of  the  poet,  Edward  Rowland  Sill  —  a  man  of 
exquisite  performance,  and  of  superior  promise 
in  American  letters  ;  still  a  young  man  —  too 
soon  overtaken  by  death. 

He  happened  on  Eastern  Point  one  summer, 
or  opening  autumn,  like  a  bird  on  the  wing 
from  some  foreign  land.  In  truth,  there  was 
always,  to  my  fancy,  something  bird-like  about 
him.  He  had  that  shy  eye,  that  essential  reti 
cence  united  with  apparent  frankness,  that  air 
of  a  form  of  creation  finer  than  ours  and  com 
petent  to  be  critical  of  us  accordingly  ;  yet, 
from  very  fineness  pathetically  depended  upon 
our  sympathy. 

He  had,  at  the  time  I  knew  him,  printed  but 
one  thin  book,  I  think  —  a  booklet,,  he  called 
it.  It  has,  since  his  death,  been  republished. 
The  best  thing  he  ever  wrote  was  "The  Fool's 
Prayer."  Or  perhaps  I  should  hesitate  between 
221 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

that  and  his  beautiful  poem  written  for  Smith 
College  ;  that  containing  the  well-known  lines  : 

"  Were  women  wise,  and  men  all  true  — 
And  one  thing  more  that  may  not  be, 
Old  earth  were  fair  enough  for  me." 

He  and  Mrs.  Sill  occupied  a  cottage  near 
me,  for  a  few  weeks,  and  it  was  my  good  for 
tune  to  know  something  of  them  in  the  free 
dom  from  constraint  which  belongs  to  summer 
seashore  neighborhoods,  —  especially,  I  some 
times  think,  to  Gloucester  neighborhood. 

I  had  known  the  poet  for  some  time  by 
correspondence  only ;  he  was  a  wonderful 
letter-writer.  Real  literary  correspondence  — 
in  fact,  correspondence  of  any  kind  —  is  a  lost 
art  in  our  scurrying  day ;  and  I  found  his  let 
ters  pungently  stimulating  through  one  long,  se 
cluded  Andover  winter.  I  only  understood  how 
valuable  they  were  when  they  ceased  forever. 
A  certain  quaintness  in  the  man  used  to  show 
itself  in  the  shapes  and  styles  of  his  letters.  I 
remember  receiving  quite  a  number  written 
upon  long  narrow  coils  of  white  paper  ;  I  never 
decided  whether  they  were  the  tapes  such  as 
the  telegrams  of  an  olden  time  used  to  be  in 
scribed  upon,  and  such  as  stock  brokers  still 
use,  or  whether  they  were  the  foldings  from 
his  wife's  ribbons.  This  is  the  only  instance 
in  which  I  ever  received  letters  by  the  yard. 
222 


EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 

I  had  never  seen  him,  as  I  say,  and  I  well 
remember  his  shy  appearance  at  my  cottage. 
He  seemed  to  shrink  unaccountably  from  the 
first  meeting.  "  We  have  an  ideal  of  a  person 
from  writing,"  he  said.  Whether  he  feared 
to  lose  his  of  me,  or  mine  of  him,  he  did  not 
divulge  ;  and  I  did  not  dare  to  ask.  He  was, 
in  most  respects,  one  of  the  most  finely-strung 
human  beings  whom  I  have  ever  known.  How 
easily  most  of  us  brush  off  our  ideals !  His 
were  the  realities  of  life,  to  him. 

He  and  Mrs.  Sill  were  enthusiastic  walkers ; 
and  gave  much  of  their  time  to  wandering 
over  the  Gloucester  downs.  I  could  not  join 
in  this  pleasure  ;  and  my  talks  with  him  were 
fragmentary,  but  always  rich  and  nutritive. 
He  did  not  chat  ;  he  conversed.  A  talkative 
feminine  fellow-boarder  he  named,  I  remem 
ber,  The  Jabberwock.  Mr.  Sill  was  charmed 
with  Gloucester.  He  had  the  Wonson  cot 
tage,  with  the  beautiful  lava  gorge  in  front, 
where  the  tide  rises  almost  to  the  piazza  ;  and 
his  favorite  way  of  spending  an  evening  was  to 
go  out  and  sit  on  the  rocks  in  the  dark,  and 
swing  his  feet  off.  He  liked  to  hang  them 
over  the  water,  he  said. 

The  same  moral  refinement  which  marks  his 
poems  characterized  the  man.  His  personal 
unselfishness  was  of  a  very  high  order.  To 
223 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A    LIFE 

sacrifice  himself  for  the  comfort  of  others  was 
as  natural  to  him  as  true  metre.  It  was  im 
possible  to  be  in  his  company  a  week  and  not 
make  some  discovery  in  the  science  of  kind 
ness.  This  is  not  always  preeminently  true 
of  the  critical  temperament ;  and  his  was  dis 
tinctly  that.  He  should  have  ranked  with  the 
foremost  of  our  American  critics,  if  he  had 
given  himself  to  that  form  of  literary  expres 
sion.  I  always  perceived  that  he  had  the  right 
of  nature  as  well  as  of  training,  to  sit  in  the 
courts  of  judgment.  His  loss  has  been  obvi 
ous  in  this  respect.  His  experience  as  pro 
fessor  of  English  had  made  him  an  invalua 
ble  literary  friend;  for  it  added  patience  to 
power. 

On  the  morning  that  he  was  to  leave  Glouces 
ter  for  his  home  in  Ohio,  Mrs.  Sill  came  run 
ning  to  our  cottage  for  help.  Mr.  Sill  had 
met  with  an  accident,  more  serious  than  it  was 
thought  at  the  time,  and  had  fainted.  He  re 
mained  where  he  was  for  some  days  before 
being  able  to  move ;  then  pluckily  continued 
his  journey.  I  went  with  them  as  far  as  Bos 
ton,  where  they  parted  from  me  ;  and  I  never 
saw  him  again.  He  died  that  winter. 

I  do  not  think  that  the  loss  to  our  literature, 
in  missing  the  full  blossom  of  his  powers,  has 
ever  been  fitly  estimated.  A  few  knew,  and 
224 


EDWARD    ROWLAND    SILL 


EDWARD   ROWLAND   SILL 

know  what  his  value  was  and  would  have  be 
come.  A  man  so  sensitively  balanced  is  always 
at  a  painful  disadvantage  in  our  calling.  He 
is  incapable  of  urging  himself,  and  too  easily 
swerved  from  the  expostulation  of  competi 
tion. 

A  well-known  editor  once  wrote  to  him, 
carelessly,  of  a  certain  contribution  which  had 
the  appearance  of  being  less  popular  than 
others  :  "  The  people  are  fickle.  They  want 
some  new  thing  all  the  time.  It  is  '  good-by  ' 
to  you  to-day,  and  welcome  somebody  else  to 
morrow  !  "  Another  man  might  have  taken 
these  thoughtless  words  as  lightly  as  they 
were  given.  Mr.  Sill  was  with  difficulty  per 
suaded  to  write  again  for  that  magazine.  Our 
editors  might  learn  a  lesson  from  an  incident 
like  this  ;  they  deal  "  not  with  flesh  and  blood, 
but  with  principalities  and  powers,"  of  select 
nature ;  they  do  well  to  take  even  a  little 
troublesome  care  where  they  strike,  and  how. 
I  happen  to  know  that,  in  this  instance,  the 
contributor  was  held  in  high  honor  by  the 
editor ;  but  it  was  almost  impossible,  after 
wards,  to  make  the  poet  believe  it. 

It  was  the  same  in  the   last   great    ordeal. 

He  died  under  conditions  from  which  a  coarser 

man  would  have  easily  rallied.     "  We  did  not 

suppose,"  was  the  stupefied  cry,    "we  did  not 

225 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

know  the  patient  had  such  an  organization  as 
this  ! " 

Fortunately  for  human  happiness,  perhaps, 
such  exquisitely  ordered  natures  are  so  few 
that  the  dull,  blundering  average  of  us  does 
not  know  how  to  treat  them.  We  inflict 
when  we  thought  to  play,  and  kill  where  we 
meant  to  heal.  When  it  is  too  late  —  "  We 
did  not  suppose,"  we  plead.  "  Other  organiza 
tions  are  not  like  this  !  "  Of  course  not.  Why 
should  they  be  ?  How  could  they  be  ? 

The  pages  of  the  Gloucester  story  turn  fast 
now,  and  yet  I  write  on,  because  I  shrink 
from  the  abrupt  termination  of  that  beautiful 
chapter  of  my  life  which  dealt  with  those 
whom  I  still  find  it  impossible  not  to  call  "  my 
people."  Time  and  trouble,  illness  and  death, 
change  and  chance,  have  scattered  them  far; 
and  yet,  to  me,  they  always  seem  to  be  a  little 
group,  affectionate  and  wistful,  waiting  for  me 
in  the  old  club-room,  and  softly  singing,  "  I 
need  Thee  every  hour"  —  their  chosen  hymn 
and  mine  —  as  I  come  in. 

I  had  been  writing  "The  Story  of  Avis" 
during  this  overwrought  time  of  personal  pre 
occupation  at  Gloucester.  That  book  came 
from  near  my  heart,  and  tore  it,  perhaps,  ac 
cordingly.  I  wrote  chiefly  in  the  winters,  at 
Andover,  and  revised  at  Gloucester.  That 
226 


"SHUT   IN" 

last  summer,  I  remember,  was  pushed  with 
the  proof-sheets  of  this  book,  crowding  in  be 
tween  the  needs  of  my  people.  Many  a  morn 
ing's  work  was  interrupted  by  the  visits  of  the 
"  reformed  men  ;  "  or  by  the  little  dissensions 
and  troubles  of  their  club  organization  ;  or  by 
signs  of  the  coldness  or  opposition  of  those 
who  might  have  aided  us,  and  who  would  have 
done  so  —  I  like  to  believe  —  if  they  had  ever 
understood  our  aims  and  motives.  If  there 
be  one  lesson  above  another  which  experience 
in  moral  reforms  teaches  a  fair-minded  person, 
I  think  it  is  patience  with  the  averseness  of 
those  who  do  not  join  in  our  own  particular 
methods  of  improving  the  world.  Lack  of 
sympathy  with  these  is  quite  as  likely  to  sig 
nify  want  of  head  as  want  of  heart ;  or  sim 
ply  to  indicate  a  deficient  imagination,  or  one 
strung  below  its  key. 

My  own  observation  leads  me  to  believe 
that  when  one  has  discovered  for  one's  self 
this  profound  but  subtle  truth,  one  is  just 
about  ready  to  begin  to  enter  upon  a  course 
or  career  of  practical  beneficence.  As  a  rule, 
one  is  far  on  in  such  before  one  makes  this 
discovery.  For  myself,  the  enforced  end  of  my 
work  at  Gloucester  and  that  illumination  which 
would  have  made  it  so  much  easier  and  gentler 
to  the  enduring  nerves,  came  together.  As  I 
227 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

say,  "  The  Story  of  Avis  "  may  have  had  its 
share  in  the  sudden  surrender  of  strength, 
which  for  a  long  time  put  an  end  to  my  use 
of  my  pen,  and  to  all  my  hopes  and  visions  of 
any  personal  part  in  alleviating  the  lot  of  the 
tempted  men  and  suffering  women  of  my  sea 
port  home. 

One  evening  in  September,  at  the  end  of  a 
worried  summer,  I  came  home  from  a  service 
at  the  club-room  with  a  strange  lightness  at 
the  head.  The  moonlight  on  the  harbor  had  a 
look  which  it  never  wore  before  or  since  ;  an 
expression  remote,  as  familiar  scenery  may 
appear,  we  think,  to  those  about  to  leave  the 
world  forever.  In  that  thrilling  harbor-light, 
everything  that  one  was  doing  or  caring  about 
took  on  a  small  look.  Service  for  humanity 
itself  acquired  a  vague  value,  and  the  fever  of 
soul  and  body  which  fed  it  turned  again  and 
rent  me. 

I  sank  on  my  pillow,  faintly  wishing  that  I 
need  never  leave  it  again,  but  perfectly  aware 
that  I  should  get  up  and  go  on  at  eight  o'clock 
to-morrow  morning,  as  usual.  Till  dawn  I 
watched  the  harbor  throbbing  under  full  moon 
and  full  tide.  That  night  the  watcher  did  not 
sleep  ;  nor  the  next ;  nor  the  next.  I  closed 
my  house  suddenly,  and  fled  to  my  father's 
home ;  where,  except  in  the  great,  uncontrol- 
228 


"SHUT   IN" 

lable  crises  of  life,  rest  had  always  awaited 
me.  This  was  no  uncontrollable  crisis  ;  nor 
even  a  crisis  at  all,  that  I  could  see  ;  and  I 
"  crawled  in,"  as  the  grown  child  does,  under 
a  father's  roof,  confident  of  peace  and  healing. 
Neither  came.  The  next  night  and  the  next 
passed  like  the  others  ;  and  then  the  rack  of 
habitual  insomnia  closed  in. 

One  slips  into  the  door  of  the  torture  cham 
ber,  thinking  it  to  be  the  entrance  to  some 
commonplace  apartment,  perhaps  some  pleas 
ant  room  with  broad  views  and  easy  exit. 
One  turns  to  step  out,  on  some  natural  errand 
—  then,  behold  the  bars,  the  bolts,  the  locks. 
Escape  ?  Try  the  windows.  They  seem  to 
hang  a  million  feet  above  the  solid  earth ; 
their  grating  is  of  metal  never  known  before 
to  the  prisoner's  chemistry,  a  relentless  fibre, 
made  from  the  pillars  of  the  world.  Weep  if 
you  will ;  pray,  if  you  choose.  But  "  God  shut 
the  door."  You  will  stay  there  till  He  opens 
it. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  to  turn  even  one  chap 
ter  of  these  recollections  into  an  invalid's  diary. 
Up  to  this  point  I  have  refrained  from  a  sub 
ject  always  of  so  much  more  importance  to 
the  sufferer  than  to  his  friends,  that  one's 
preference  would  exile  it  from  these  records 
229 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

altogether.  Since  that  is  not  quite  practicable, 
it  seems  to  me  the  simpler  way  to  meet  it  as 
frankly  and  as  briefly  as  possible. 

Perhaps  we  all  have  some  plea  more  reason 
able  than  others,  to  account  for  the  absence  of 
the  things  which  we  have  failed  to  be  or  to  do. 
It  has  always  seemed  to  me  that  the  views 
taken  by  persons  capable  of  "  the  vision  and 
the  dream,"  of  the  grounds  on  which  they 
have  omitted  to  reach .  their  ideal,  would  have 
an  interest  far  above  that  of  mere  biographic 
personalities.  What  warning  in  this  experi 
ence  of  wasted  aspiration  !  What  stimulus  in 
that !  But  here  we  come  to  the  question  :  Is 
aspiration  ever  wasted  ?  Is  achievement,  or 
the  effort  to  achieve,  the  essence  of  value  ? 
When  Sidney  Colvin,  Stevenson's  particular 
critic,  condemned  "The  Ebb-Tide,"  —  to  my 
mind  one  of  the  best  things  which  Stevenson 
ever  did,  —  the  exiled  and  sinking  man  wrote 
pathetically :  — 

"  The  inherent  tragedy  of  things  works  it 
self  out  from  white  to  black  and  blacker,  and 
the  poor  things  of  a  day  look  ruefully  on. 
Does  it  shake  my  cast-iron  faith  ?  I  cannot 
say  it  does.  I  believe  in  the  ultimate  decency 
of  things  ;  ay,  and  if  I  woke  in  hell,  should 
still  believe  it !  But  it  is  hard  walking  !  .  .  . 

(Observe  the  cruelty  —  give  me  a  parenthe- 
230 


"SHUT  IN" 

sis  to  say  it :  —  This  comfortable  Englishman, 
tasting  the  fruits  of  the  world,  pouring  what 
he  called  "  criticism  "  on  a  dying  man,  prisoner 
in  an  island  in  the  South  Sea,  where  the  mails 
come  but  once  a  month,  and  where  a  poor 
fellow  might  be  buried  before  he  could  know 
that  his  book  sold,  or  his  critics  repented  them 
of  their  sins !  Facts  like  this  deepen  a  natural 
skepticism  as  to  the  usefulness  of  the  art  of 
criticism  into  a  fierce  pang  of  resentment  for 
the  dying  author's  sake.) 

"  I  am  an  idler  and  a  cumberer  of  the 
ground,"  he  writes  in  one  of  the  last  letters 
to  which  he  set  his  trembling  pen.  "  It  may 
be  excused  to  me,  perhaps,  by  twenty  years  of 
industry  and  ill  health,  which  have  taken  the 
cream  off  they  milk.  ...  I  am  almost  ready  to 
call  the  world  an  error.  Because  ?  Because  I 
have  not  drugged  myself  with  successful  work, 
and  there  are  all  kinds  of  ...  unfriendly 
trifles  buzzing  in  my  ear.  If  I  could  find  a 
place  where  I  could  lie  down  and  give  up  for 
(say)  two  years,  and  allow  the  sainted  public 
to  support  me,  if  it  were  a  lunatic  asylum, 
wouldn't  I  go,  just  !  .  .  .  But  you  men  with 
salaries  don't  know  how  a  family  weighs  on  a 
fellow's  mind." 

Stevenson  is  our  latest  and  most  pathetic 
specimen  of  the  not  inconsiderable  list  of  inva- 
231 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A  LIFE 

lid  writers  who  have  been  important  to  the 
world  ;  and  if  the  rest  of  them  had  "  spoken 
out "  as  bluntly,  as  quaintly,  and  as  wistfully 
as  he,  we  might  all  have  been  the  wiser  or  the 
gentler  for  their  candor  ;  at  least,  all  but  those 
critics  who  appropriate  wisdom  and  scorn  gen 
tleness,  and  who  will  doubtless  perceive  in 
these  very  outcries  of  genius  and  of  dissolu 
tion,  wailing  over  from  Samoa,  a  fault  of  syn 
tax,  or  an  error  in  taste,  or  some  pathological 
inefficiency,  to  be  picked  up  and  sported  on 
the  point  of  an  easy  pen.  The  solemn,  antique 
writhing  of  power  overcome  by  fate,  the  great 
attitude,  like  that  of  the  Laocoon,  the  gran 
deur  of  strength  rending  its  own  weakness, 
the  long,  touching  conflict  of  spirit  with  flesh, 
the  massive  determination  crowding  down  phy 
sical  disorder  which  would  have  killed  a  lesser 
creature  twenty  times  over,  twenty  years  be 
fore  —  who  is  to  rate  all  this  in  an  estimate  of 
the  man's  value  to  literature  ?  No  one  ;  abso 
lutely  no  one  who  has  not  fought  the  lions  of 
physical  disease  in  the  cage  of  a  life  bolted  by 
the  sharp  need  of  daily  bread ;  no  one  who  has 
not  fought  them  with  the  sinew  and  the  nerve 
of  a  creative  genius. 

An  invalid  or  disabled  writer  does  not  ask 
for  the  sops  and  gruels  of  the  sick-room  ;  he 
does   not  expect  his  metre  to  be  scanned  by 
232 


"SHUT   IN" 

his  headaches,  or  his  perspicacity  to  be  taken 
by  the  physician's  thermometer.  He  is  the 
last  man  toiling  and  suffering,  to  appeal  to  the 
stethoscope  against  his  rhetoric  or  his  con 
struction.  He  asks  nothing  but  fair  play,  and 
that  fair  sense  which  is  the  basis  of  fair  play. 
In  a  word,  he  ought  to  be  judged  by  the  pres 
ence  of  a  certain  quality  which  suffering  only 
gives,  as  well  as  by  the  absence  of  certain 
other  qualities  which  are  the  properties  of 
health  alone.  It  is  precisely  this  discrimina 
tion  which  is  too  often  lacking  in  comfortable 
folk  sitting  easily  on  critics'  salaries  and  dicta 
ting  through  nerves  cooled  by  the  critical,  not 
fevered  by  the  creative,  faculty. 

"  I  have  a  brave  soul  in  a  coward  body," 
said  one  of  our  poets  when  he  fainted  under  a 
painful  accident.  How  is  a  champion  football 
player  to  understand  that  ? 

Wise  was  Hazlitt,  who  wrote  of  "  The  inso 
lence  of  health."  Rose  Terry  Cooke's  physi 
cian  said  to  her  a  few  years  before  she  died, 
"  Every  time  you  write  you  draw  out  of  the 
very  sources  of  your  life." 

"  No  truly  sensitive  man,"  said  Longfellow 
once  to  me,  "  can  be  perfectly  well."  He 
might  have  added  that  one  of  the  cruelest  prob 
lems  of  life  is  to  make  the  perfectly  well  un 
derstand  that  he  is  not  perfectly  sensitive, 
233 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

and  therefore  may  be  disqualified  from  com 
prehension  of  those  who  are. 

Far  be  it  from  me  —  to  the  farthest  limit  of 
good  sense  —  to  seem  to  undervalue  by  a  semi 
tone  the  supremacy  of  physical  sanity.  Next 
to  holiness,  nothing  is  so  enviable  as  health. 
I  am  not  ashamed  to  say  it  —  I  would  rather 
be  well  than  be  Shakespeare.  I  would  rather 
be  a  hearty,  happy,  strapping  motor-man,  or 
wood-chopper,  or  stoker,  than  —  But  would 
I  ?  How  can  one  tell  ?  "  To  understand  the 
psychology  of  sheep,"  said  George  Eliot,  "  one 
must  have  been  a  sheep."  To  understand  the 
mental  attitude  of  health,  one  must  have  been 
descended  of  health  and  chosen  of  it.  Ideally 
speaking,  the  robust  mind  in  the  robust  body 
ought  to  be  the  keenest  as  well  as  the  finest 
in  this  world.  In  point  of  fact,  it  often  par 
takes  too  much  of  its  own  muscle ;  the  nerve 
of  perception  is  bedded  a  little  too  deep  in  the 
fibre. 

A  life-long  invalid,  herself  a  brave,  patient, 
unselfish  woman,  absorbed  in  interests  outside 
of  her  own  suffering,  and  more  useful  to  the 
world  than  most  healthy  people,  said  to  me 
the  wisest  thing  which  I  ever  heard  upon  the 
subject,  —  "  The  sick  and  the  well  do  not 
understand  each  other."  There  is  philosophy 
in  this,  which  is  worth  heeding.  It  has  oc- 
234 


"SHUT  IN" 

curred  to  me  that  a  mediator  is  needed  be 
tween  health  and  disease,  as  there  was  be 
tween  heaven  and  earth,  as  there  is  between 
virtue  and  vice,  and  certain  other  separated 
quantities  or  qualities.  The  physician  does 
not  fill  this  function,  nor  can  he  ;  the  reasons 
why  he  may  not,  are  obvious.  Most  great 
human  needs  create  their  own  supplies  ;  and 
this  one  may  come,  as  soon  as  consciousness 
of  its  want  reaches  the  stage  of  articulation, 
or,  possibly,  of  clamor. 

Life,  I  believe,  teaches  most  of  us  some  one 
lesson  supremely  above  all  others.  The  liter 
ary  artist  will  make  over  to  the  world  that 
illumination  which  fate  has  kindled  to  the  fair 
est  flame  in  his  own  soul.  He  may  "  sketch  " 
or  "  etch,"  he  may  "  report  "  or  "  photograph," 
he  may  be  realist  or  romanticist,  he  may  have 
the  light  touch  or  the  strong  one  —  but  he 
will  portray  what  he  knows,  and  little  else. 
Imagination  is  built  upon  knowledge,  and  his 
dreams  will  rest  upon  his  facts.  He  is  worth 
to  the  world  just  about  what  he  has  learned 
from  it,  and  no  more. 

I  have  sometimes  thought  that,  before  I  put 
the  shield  on  my  stylographic  pen  for  the  last 
time,  I  should  like  to  say  to  that  little  portion 
of  the  world  which  knows  or  cares  for  me  at 
all,  such  things  as  I  have  discovered  for  my 
235 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

self  about  the  relation  of  illness  to  energy,  to 
sympathy,  and  to  fortitude.  Some  of  them 
seem  to  me  worth  saying  —  though  I  may  be 
wrong  ;  and  even  worth  suffering  to  be  quali 
fied  to  say  —  though  on  that  I  do  not  insist. 
But  when  one  reflects  on  the  books  one  never 
has  written,  and  never  may,  though  their  sched 
ules  lie  in  the  beautiful  chirography  which 
marks  the  inception  of  an  unexpressed  thought 
upon  the  pages  of  one's  notebook,  one  is  aware, 
of  any  given  idea,  that  the  chances  are  against 
its  ever  being  offered  to  one's  dearest  readers. 

Therefore,  though  this  is  clearly  not  the 
space  for  a  treatise  on  invalidism  (Shade  of 
Harriet  Martineau  forbid  !  She  did  it  too  well 
in  a  volume  for  one  to  do  it  worse  in  a  page), 
yet  I  may  be  pardoned,  if  I  venture  to  say :  — 

The  world  has  learned  fast  how  to  treat  the 
other  defective  classes,  the  criminal,  the  in 
sane,  the  shiftless,  the  pauper  ;  in  all  these 
branches  of  investigation  we  are  developing  a 
race  of  experts. 

In  the  comprehension  of  the  physically  dis 
abled,  or  disordered,  it  is  my  conviction  that 
we  are  behind  our  age.  I  do  not  mean  by  this 
to  cast  any  petty  or  ungrateful  fling  upon  the 
usefulness  of  physicians. 

As  a  class,  I  think  them  men  and  women  of 
courage  and  of  unselfishness  far  beyond  the 
236 


"SHUT   IN" 

line  at  which  most  of  us  exhibit  these  quali 
ties.  But  the  scalpel  will  never  perform  the 
finer  surgery,  nor  the  prescription  formulate 
the  hidden  therapeutics  that  I  have  in  mind. 
The  pyschology  of  sickness  and  of  health  are 
at  odds ;  and  both  the  sick  and  the  well  suffer 
from  the  fact.  I  believe  that  great  pathologi 
cal  reformations  are  before  us,  and  that  a  mass 
of  human  misery,  now  beyond  the  reach  of  the 
kindest  patience  which  handles  it,  will  be  alle 
viated.  In  truth,  I  believe  that  sympathy  as 
a  fine  art  is  backward  in  the  growth  of  prog 
ress  ;  and  that  the  subtlest  and  most  delicate 
minds  of  the  earth  will  yet  give  themselves  to 
its  study  with  a  high  passion  hitherto  unknown 
to  us. 

In  the  days  of  the  Most  Holy  Catholic  In 
quisition,  one  form  of  torture,  above  all  others 
conceived  of  the  devil,  was  held  in  supreme 
value.  This  was  the  torture  of  enforced  sleep 
lessness.  About  three  to  four  days  and  nights 
of  this  religious  argument  were  found  enough 
to  bring  the  most  obstinate  heretic  to  terms. 
Where  fire  and  pincers,  rack  and  famine  failed, 
the  denial  of  sleep  succeeded. 

De  Quincey's  Opium  -  Eater  was  a  prose 
poem,  which  stands  for  all  time  one  of  the  great 
est  pathological  contributions  of  genius  and  of 
suffering  to  literature.  There  is  a  vision  yet 
237 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

to  be  recorded  —  whether  in  prose  or  in  poetry, 
in  fiction  or  in  philosophy,  I  sometimes  wonder 
—  which  shall  disclose  the  action  of  another 
drama,  not  of  splendors  and  horrors,  like  his 
who  heard  the  immortal  cry,  "  Everlasting 
farewells  ! "  in  his  ruined  dreams ;  but  the 
drama  of  endurance,  resolve,  and  conquest, 
which  goes  on  unrecognized  in  so  many  a 
brave  and  patient,  obscure  life. 

The  abstainer  from  anodynes  who  starves 
for  sleep,  but  does  not  feed  on  poison  (God 
forbid  that  you  dare  to  blame  him  if  he  does, 
though  you  may  safely  revere  him  if  he  does 
not !),  lacks  the  gorgeous,  narcotined  imagina 
tion  of  the  great  Englishman  whereby  to  tell 
his  story ;  but  if  it  is  ever  told,  it  will  be  a 
better  one  for  the  world  to  hear. 

There  is  a  light  side  to  most  of  our  grim 
experiences,  and  I  am  glad  to  record  mine  in 
this  direction. 

Acquaintance  with  insomnia  is  like  acquaint 
ance  with  grief.  When  you  have  learned  how 
to  treat  your  strange  foe,  he  has  half  ceased  to 
be  your  foe.  Unexpected  docilities  and  amities 
develop.  Where  you  looked  for  a  battle  to  the 
death,  you  find  a  truce  ;  and  behold,  you  live. 

Perhaps  I  may  be  permitted  to  say,  out  of  a 
measure  of  personal  relief  from  past  miseries, 
that  I  have  learned  many  things  which  I  may 
238 


"SHUT   IN" 

reveal  in  that  day  when  the  writer  and  the  un 
known  reader  who  loves  her  best  shall  com 
mune  together.  (I  wonder  if  other  authors 
have  the  fancy  which  I  have,  that  such  a  gra 
cious  being  exists  ?)  Without  waiting  for  that 
phantasmagorial  appointment,  it  may  be  worth 
while  here  to  suggest  to  other  victims  of  our 
overwrought  American  constitution  and  over 
bearing  climate  these  two  thoughts  ;  —  for 
truth  I  know,  of  my  faith,  is  in  them. 

Avoid  dependence  upon  narcotics  as  you 
would  that  circle  in  the  Inferno  where  the 
winds  blow  the  lost  spirit  about,  and  toss  him 
to  and  fro  —  returning  on  his  course,  and 
driven  back  —  forever.  Take  the  amount  of 
sleep  that  God  allows  you,  and  go  without 
what  He  denies  ;  but  fly  from  drugs  as  you 
would  from  that  poison  of  the  Borgias  which 
cunningly  selected  the  integrity  of  the  brain 
on  which  to  feed.  Starve  for  sleep  if  you 
must ;  die  for  lack  of  it  if  you  must ;  I  am 
almost  prepared  to  say,  accept  the  delirium 
which  marks  the  extremity  of  fate  in  this  land 
of  despair,  —  but  scorn  the  habit  of  using  an 
odynes  as  you  hope  for  healing,  and  value 
reason.  This  revelation  is  sealed  with  seven 
seals. 

Expect  to  recover.  Sleep  is  a  habit.  The 
habit  of  not  sleeping  once  diverged,  may  at 
239 


CHAPTERS    FROM    A  LIFE 

any  time  swerve  back  to  the  habit  of  rest. 
The  nervous  nature  is  peculiarly  hung  upon  the 
Law  of  Rhythm  ;  and  the  oscillation,  having 
vibrated  just  about  so  far,  is  liable  or  likely 
to  swing  back.  But,  if  you  are  to  recover,  the 
chances  are  that  you  must  do  it  in  your  own 
way,  not  in  other  people's  ways.  To  a  cer 
tain  extent,  respect  your  own  judgment,  if  you 
have  any,  as  to  the  necessities  of  your  condi 
tion. 

Cease  to  trouble  yourself  whether  you  are  un 
derstood  or  sympathized  with,  by  your  friends, 
or  even  by  your  physicians.  Probably  you 
never  will  be,  because  you  never  can  be.  At 
all  events,  it  is  of  the  smallest  importance 
whether  you  are  or  not.  .  The  expression  of 
sympathy  is  the  first  luxury  which  the  sick 
should  learn  to  go  without.  This  is  peculiarly 
and  always  true  of  nervous  disorder.  A  tooth 
ache  or  an  influenza,  a  cough  or  a  colic,  calls 
forth  more  commiseration  than  these  trifles 
deserve.  Disease  of  the  nervous  system  is,  as 
a  rule,  and  among  enlightened  and  kindly  peo 
ple,  regarded  with  the  instinctive  suspicion 
and  coldness  natural  to  a  profound  ignorance 
of  the  subject.  Do  not  be  afraid  to  act  for 
yourself.  Define  your  own  conditions  of  cure. 
Follow  them  faithfully.  Do  not  be  impatient 
to  be  as  you  were  before  the  liberty  of  healthy 
240 


"SHUT   IN" 

nerves  departed  from  you.  It  may  become 
needful  for  you  to  readjust  your  life,  and  all 
that  is  therein. 

Obey  the  laws  which  you  have  discovered 
for  yourself  to  be  good  government  for  you ; 
and  probably,  by  respecting  them,  you  will 
regain  yourself,  and  receive  once  more  the 
natural  renovation  of  your  soul  and  body.  Com 
mon,  human  sleep,  once  indifferently  accepted, 
like  light,  or  air,  or  food,  will  then  become  the 
ecstasy  of  living.  With  it,  all  hardships  can  be 
borne  ;  without  it,  none. 

Guy  de  Maupassant,  in  his  piteous  condition 
at  the  last,  chased,  we  are  told,  imaginary  but 
terflies.  "Where,"  he  cried,  "are  my  lost 
thoughts  ?  Who  will  tell  me  where  to  find 
my  thoughts  ?  "  Then,  he  beheld  them  —  blue 
for  love,  and  silver  for  joy,  and  black  for  sorrow 
—  winged  creatures,  flitting  from  his  grasp,  and 
returning  to  his  hand. 

So,  I  like  to  think,  it  will  be  with  all  of  us 
who  have  ever  had  any  thoughts  to  chase  and 
who,  through  the  physical  disabilities  of  life, 
or  any  of  its  apparent  refusals,  have  missed 
certain  of  our  own  best  possibilities.  Our  but 
terflies  will  all  dip  on  before,  and  circle  round 
us  —  the  blue  and  the  silver,  the  rose  and  the 
gold  —  wings  of  what  we  might  have  done, 
and  yet  may  do.  For  winged  things  know 
241 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

their  course  through  space  ;  and  life  and  death 
alike,  I  think,  are  flowers  to  them. 

"  Tragic  Gloucester,"  a  friend  once  called  it, 
who  resented  the  effect  upon  myself  of  the 
troubled  side  of  seaport  life.  But  beautiful 
Gloucester,  the  same  yesterday,  to-day,  and 
forever,  it  remains  to  me.  Her  tides  may  tell  / 
the  saddest  stories  to  those  who  have  ears  to 
hear  them  ;  but,  like  many  other  sad  racon 
teurs,  they  tell  the  sweetest,  too. 

The  autumn  of  1888  brushed  the  palette  of 
Gloucester  Harbor.  The  face  of  the  leaf  and 
the  tint  of  the  lining  of  the  wave  took  on  their 
own  strong  colors.  The  October  storms  and 
the  October  suns,  equally  welcome  to  those 
who  love  the  sea,  changed  places  like  figures 
in  a  graceful  walking-dance  ;  and  the  first  deli 
cate  sheath  of  ice  upon  the  top  of  the  hogshead 
of  rainwater  which  had  always  been  my  ther 
mometer  at  the  chalet,  and  told  me  when  it 
was  time  to  go  back  to  my  father's  house, 
called  me  to  Andover  Hill  no  more. 

The  Old  Maids'  Paradise  was  closed  that 
year  forever. 

Mr.  Alger,  in  his  "  Friendships  of  Women," 

prudently  observes  :  "  A  man's  best  friend  is  a 

wife  of  good  sense  and  good  heart,  whom  he 

loves,  and  who  loves  him."     We   might  well 

242 


A   ROSE  GARDEN   IN   CAROLINA 

say  :  A  woman's  best  friend  is  a  husband  of 
intellect  and  of  heart,  whom  she  loves,  and 
who  loves  her.  And  I  should  like  to  add  :  A 
literary  woman's  best  critic  is  her  husband  ; 
and  I  cannot  express  in  these  few  words  the 
debt  which  I  am  proud  to  acknowledge  to 
him  who  has  never  hindered  my  life's  work 
by  one  hour  of  anything  less  than  loyal  de 
light  in  it,  and  who  has  never  failed  to  urge 
me  to  my  best,  of  which  his  ideal  is  higher 
than  my  own. 

The  great  semi-tropical  region  of  the  South 
ern  States  has  many  a  choice  spot  hidden 
away  from  the  glance  of  the  fashionable  tour 
ist,  who  cares  to  do  only  what  his  neighbor 
does ;  and  he  whose  eyes  are  fine  discovers 
these  winter  gardens,  and  shelters  himself  in 
them  till  they,  too,  come  into  the  fashion,  and 
are  ruined  accordingly.  Among  these  luxuri 
ant  Edens  in  1888  was  the  village  of  Summer- 
ville,  South  Carolina.  It  was,  and  is,  to  my 
mind  —  and  I  know  something  of  the  South  — 
one  of  the  very  best  places  upon  the  map  be 
low  Washington  in  which  a  Northerner  may 
take  his  turn  at  the  fancy  of  losing  the  winter 
out  of  his  year.  Most  of  us  try  it,  and  most 
of  us  get  over  it ;  and  we  of  New  England,  in 
particular,  return  to  our  own  country  by  an 
other  way,  and  forthwith  develop  a  respect  for 
243 


CHAPTERS    FROM  A   LIFE 

it  never  known  before  we  exchanged  the  snow 
drift  for  the  sand-flats,  the  Northeaster  for  the 
soft,  weak,  stationary  thermometer,  and  the 
coast  pines  for  the  everglades.  "An  orange 
tree  is  a  stick  beside  an  apple-orchard  ! "  cried 
one  homesick  Massachusetts  invalid,  exiled 
for  dear  life  to  Florida.  Though  I  confess 
to  something  of  the  same  prejudice,  I  must 
admit  that  Summerville  is  a  land  of  lovely 
dreams,  with  more  conveniences  and  fewer 
discomforts,  more  tonic  and  less  enervation, 
than  any  other  Southern  health  or  pleasure 
resort  that  I  have  seen. 

Summerville  is  a  village  dropped  into  a  pine 
forest.  Roses  run  riot  over  it ;  its  homes  are 
gardens,  and  gardens  are  its  homes.  There 
the  winds  are  laid ;  a  blind  may  hang  loosely 
half  the  winter,  and  will  never  flap  from  dark 
to  dawn  against  your  rose-wreathed  window. 
If  there  is  wind  enough  to  blow  a  little  girl's 
hat  off,  one  calls  it  a  gale.  There  it  is  always 
dreamland,  and  there  the  knotted  Northern 
nerves  may  relax  and  rest. 

The  winter  of  1888-89  found  us  in  this  kindly 
place.  Longfellow  wrote  once  to  a  friend  of 
his  early  home  life,  "  We  are  happy  in  our  own 
hired  house."  Our  "  hired  house  "  was  one  of 
the  prettiest,  I  make  bold  to  believe,  upon 
which  the  American  traveler  might  happen, 
244 


A  ROSE  GARDEN   IN   CAROLINA 

though  he  sought  from  Maryland  to  Florida. 
The  cottage  was  set  in  a  bower  of  roses, 
the  Cherokee,  the  blush,  and  the  yellow.  Ja- 
ponicas,  azaleas,  violets,  and  magnolias  blazed 
across  box  and  myrtle,  touched  in  with  the 
soft  lights  of  Southern  garden  blossoms  whose 
names  I  did  not  know,  and  never  had  the 
intellectual  initiative  to  ask,  since,  to  tell 
the  truth,  I  liked  them  the  better  for  my 
ignorance.  I  have  never  seen  at  the  North 
anything  to  compare  with  the  feeling  of  the 
Charleston  people  (who  made  their  summer 
homes  in  this  village)  for  their  flowers.  This 
passion  was  identical  with  devotion,  which  is 
not  true  of  all  passions,  and  easily  mounted 
into  adoration.  The  chief  conversation  in 
Summerville  was  of  flowers  ;  and  a  gentle,  re 
fining  one  it  was. 

To  this  cottage,  where  we  sat  among  the 
roses,  hard  at  work  (for  I  have  never  seen 
the  time  yet  when  I  could  manage  to  take  a 
vacation  not  absolutely  thrust  upon  me  by  ill 
ness),  came  down  one  day  the  indefatigable 
editor  of  a  New  York  literary  syndicate,  to 
whom  distance  is  a  myth,  and  topography  a 
plaything. 

From  that  visit  resulted  the  syndicate  pub 
lication,  and  later,  the  appearance  in  book 
form  of  the  two  novels  which  Mr.  Ward  and  I 
245 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A  LIFE 

collaborated,  and  about  which  I  have  a  few 
words  to  say  here. 

We  were  engaged  to  write  these  novels  for 
a  special  purpose,  and  with  a  special  cast  and 
coloring.  These,  like  most  of  the  novels  writ 
ten  in  the  present  day,  were  to  be  adapted  to 
serial  publication  first  and  foremost  ;  which 
means,  in  a  word,  rapidity  of  action  and  sensi 
tiveness  of  suspense,  and  more  frequent  climax 
than  were  required  by  stories  of  the  elder  time, 
peacefully  read  between  covers,  of  an  evening. 
The  one  thing  which  serial  publication  does 
not  require  is  less  art.  Personally,  I  have  al 
ways  found  it  more  difficult  than  a  tale  which 
has  no  bars  or  fences,  but  may  run  its  own  will 
over  the  countryside,  coming  to  a  stop  when  it 
gets  through.  Partly  for  this  reason,  but  more 
because  of  my  own  inaptitude  for  historical 
study,  I  was  very  reluctant  to  undertake  the 
work  in  question.  Mr.  McClure,  who  recog 
nized  my  husband's  gifts  in  this  direction,  per 
suaded  us  ;  and  we  wrote. 

Our  task  was  to  create  two  novels  built  upon 
Scriptural  characters,  scenery,  and  history. 
They  must  be  oriental  to  the  last  adjective. 
They  must  treat  of  life,  of  love,  of  action,  not 
as  the  occidental  looks  at  these  great  facts. 
Saints,  villains,  heroes,  and  heroines  must  think 
and  feel  not  as  the  New  Yorker,  or  the  Bos- 
246 


HERBERT   D.  WARD 


A  ROSE  GARDEN  IN   CAROLINA 

tonian,  or  the  Londoner  of  1890  thinks  and 
feels,  but  as  the  Babylonian  or  the  Jew  of  two 
thousand  or  three  thousand  years  ago  would 
have  loved  and  fought  and  wrought  and  died. 
This  undertaking  involved  much  study,  and  of 
a  close  and  exacting  kind.  And  just  here,  I 
would  like  to  say :  — 

The  research  implied  in  the  construction  of 
these  two  books  must  be  entirely  credited  to 
my  collaborates.  I  cannot  lay  claim  to  any 
portion  whatever  of  the  industry  and  accuracy 
which  have  received  the  warm  recognition  of 
oriental  scholars  ;  and  I  have  always  felt  a 
little  uncomfortable  at  the  chance  of  being 
supposed  to  be  so  much  "  wiser  than  I  am !  " 

Further :  One  of  these  books,  from  the 
critic's  point  of  view,  succeeded  better  than  the 
other.  I  am  glad  to  take  this  natural  oppor 
tunity  to  say,  that  the  one  which  succeeded 
should  be  entirely  attributed  to  Mr.  Ward  — 
construction,  plot,  and  all  but  a  small  fraction 
of  the  execution. 

"  The  Master  of  the  Magicians  "  added  to  a 
large  circulation  the  cordial  welcome  of  re 
viewers.  For  whatever  that  is  worth,  the  book 
had  it. 

"  Come  Forth  "  reached  the  usual  comfort 
able  and  satisfactory  circulation,  but  did  not 
leap  to  the  further  side  of  that ;  and  —  I  am 
247 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

told  —  received  at  the  hands  of  reviewers  a 
treatment  amounting  to  brutality.  Of  course, 
in  this  case,  as  is  my  custom  in  all  others,  I 
have  never  read  these  opinions  expressed  by 
professional  critics  about  my  books,  and  have 
never  felt  any  temptation  to  do  so. 

It  fell  to  Mr.  Ward  and  myself  to  collabo 
rate  one  other  story,  growing  out  of  our  life 
in  South  Carolina ;  and  the  success  of  this 
(which  was  so  fortunate  as  to  take  a  first 
prize  in  the  "Youth's  Companion,"  in  the 
only  competition  of  that  kind  in  which  I  ever 
engaged,)  I  attribute  also,  in  good  measure,  to 
my  collaborates. 

248 


XII 

ART  FOR  TRUTH'S  SAKE  :  STORIES  AND  BOOKS  : 
A  NEW  HOME 

A  MAKER  of  books  with  any  tendency  to 
wards  the  activities  of  moral  reform  may  be  at 
some  peculiar  disadvantage.  As  I  look  back 
upon  the  last  twenty-five  years  of  my  own  life, 
I  seem  to  myself  to  have  achieved  little  or  no 
thing  in  the  stir  of  the  great  movements  for 
improving  the  condition  of  society  which  have 
distinguished  our  day ;  yet  I  am  conscious  that 
these  have  often  thrust  in  my  study  door  and 
dragged  me  out  into  their  forays,  if  not  upon 
their  battle-fields.  The  grandfather  who  be 
longed  to  the  underground  -  railway,  and  the 
grandfather  of  the  German  lexicon,  must  have 
contended  in  the  brain  cells  or  heart  cells  of 
their  unconscious  descendant,  as  our  ancestors 
do  in  the  lives  of  all  of  us  ;  for  the  reformer's 
blood  and  the  student's  blood  have  always 
had  an  uncomfortable  time  of  it,  together,  in 
my  veins. 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  understand,  now, 
249 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

what  it  meant  when  I  was  twenty-five,  for  a 
young  lady  reared  as  I  was,  on  Andover  Hill, 
to  announce  that  she  should  forthwith  approve 
and  further  the  enfranchisement  and  elevation 
of  her  own  sex.  Seen  beside  the  really  great 
martyrdoms  and  dedications  of  the  "  causes " 
which  throb  through  our  modern  life,  this 
seems  an  episode  only  large  enough  to  irritate 
a  smile.  Yet  I  do  not,  to  this  hour,  like  to 
recall,  and  I  have  no  intention  whatever  of  re 
vealing,  what  it  cost  me. 

In  fact,  it  seems  to  have  been  my  luck  to 
stumble  into  various  forms  of  progress,  to  which 
I  have  been  of  the  smallest  possible  use  ;  yet 
for  whose  sake  I  have  suffered  the  discomfort 
attending  all  action  in  moral  improvements, 
without  the  happiness  of  knowing  that  this 
was  clearly  quite  worth  while. 

The  creed  is  short,  though  it  has  taken  a 
long  time  to  formulate  it. 

I  believe  in  the  Life  Everlasting  ;  which  is 
sure  to  be  ;  and  that  it  is  the  first  duty  of 
Christian  faith  to  present  that  life  in  a  form 
more  attractive  to  the  majority  of  men  than 
the  life  that  now  is. 

I  believe  in  women  ;  and  in  their  right  to 
their  own  best  possibilities  in  every  depart 
ment  of  life. 

I  believe  that  the  methods  of  dress  practiced 
250 


ART  FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

among  women  are  a  marked  hindrance  to  the 
realization  of  these  possibilities,  and  should  be 
scorned  or  persuaded  out  of  society. 

I  believe  that  the  miseries  consequent  on 
the  manufacture  and  sale  of  intoxicating  liquors 
are  so  great  as  imperiously  to  command  the 
attention  of  all  dedicated  lives  ;  and  that  while 
the  abolition  of  American  slavery  was  numeri 
cally  first,  the  abolition  of  the  liquor  traffic  is 
not  morally  second. 

I  believe  that  the  urgent  protest  against 
vivisection  which  marks  our  immediate  day, 
and  the  whole  plea  for  lessening  the  miseries 
of  animals  as  endured  at  the  hands  of  men, 
constitute  the  "  next "  great  moral  question, 
which  is  to  be  put  to  the  intelligent  conscience, 
and  that  only  the  educated  conscience  can 
properly  reply  to  it. 

I  believe  that  the  condition  of  our  common 
and  statute  laws  is  behind  our  age  to  an  extent 
unperceived  by  all  but  a  few  of  our  social  re 
formers  ;  that  wrongs  mediaeval  in  character, 
and  practically  resulting  in  great  abuses,  and 
much  unrecorded  suffering  are  still  to  be  found 
at  the  doors  of  our  legal  system  ;  and  that 
they  will  remain  there  till  the  fated  fanatic  of 
this  undeveloped  "  cause  "  arises  to  demolish 
them. 

I  am  uncertain  whether  I  ought  to  add  that 
251 


CHAPTERS  FROM  A  LIFE 

I  believe  in  the  homeopathic  system  of  ther« 
apeutics.  I  am  often  told  by  skeptical  friends 
that  I  hold  this  belief  on  a  par  with  the  Chris- 
;  tian  religion  ;  and  am  not  altogether  inclined 
to  deny  the  sardonic  impeachment !  When 
our  bodies  cease  to  be  drugged  into  disease 
and  sin,  it  is  my  personal  impression  that  our 
souls  will  begin  to  stand  a  fair  chance ;  per 
haps  not  much  before. 

Too  brief  a  creed  !  Yet  still  too  short  a 
life  to  practice  it !  But  may  the  clover  refuse 
to  grow  over  my  grave,  and  the  flowers  laid 
there  by  the  dearest  hands  shrink  from  it,  if  I 
outlive  the  impulse  of  my  heart  to  keep  step 
with  the  onward  movement  of  human  life,  and 
to  perceive  the  battle  afar  off,  charging  when 
and  where  I  can. 

Justice  Holmes,  the  son  of  our  great  poet, 
in  a  recent  Decoration  Day  address  struck  a 
paean  in  praise  of  the  "  splendid  carelessness 
of  life  "  which  war  taught  us.  Give  us  such 
splendid  carelessness,  in  moral  as  in  physical 
danger,  and  the  world  will  spin  fast  towards 
tjie  stars. 

I  have  intimated  that  the  claims  of  my  study 
have  interfered  with  the  demands  which  social 
reform  would  otherwise  have  made  upon  my 
life.  This  is  an  evitable  fact,  imperfectly  to 
be  understood,  except  by  people  whose  busi' 
252 


ART   FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

ness  is  to  stay  in  a  study.  There  is  a  puzzled 
expression  sometimes  cast  upon  one  by  men 
and  women  —  but  especially  by  women  — 
whom  one  holds  in  the  highest  honor  ;  whose 
own  existence  is  dedicated  to  the  moral  agita 
tion  of  the  platform  and  the  convention  and  to 
the  machinery  of  organization.  Mine  is  not, 
nor  has  it  ever  been.  My  intellect  may  go 
with  them,  and  my  heart  may  throb  for  them, 
but  my  time  and  vitality  have  always  been  dis 
tinctly  the  property  of  my  ideals  of  literary 
art ;  ideals  which  are  not  the  less  imperious  to 
me,  because  I  know  better  than  any  of  my 
critics  how  impossible  it  has  been  for  me  to 
reach  them,  where  they  — 

"  Swing  like  lamps  in  the  Judgment  Hall 
On  the  Eve  of  the  Day  of  the  Last  Awaking." 

"  Do  not  trouble  her.  She  works  in  another 
way  from  ours,"  said  Mrs.  Livermore  gently, 
one  day,  to  some  unknown  agitator,  who  was 
abusing  rather  than  entreating  me  into  the 
performance  of  some  platform  exhibition  for 
the  sake  of  the  cause.  I  blessed  the  great 
woman  who  defended  me  from  the  small  one  ; 
and  I  think  of  her  words  and  manner  grate 
fully,  to  this  day.  And  this  leads  me  to  say, 
by  the  way,  if  I  may  spare  a  paragraph  for  the 
confession  :  —  that  it  is  fortunate  for  the  real 
usefulness  and  power  of  women  in  public  ad- 
253 


CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

dress,  that  their  eminent  success  in  this  direc 
tion  has  never  in  the  least  depended  upon  my 
individual  contributions  to  its  history. 

In  the  course  of  my  life  I  have  made,  indeed, 
the  most  conscientious  and  courageous  efforts 
to  defy  my  own  temperament  in  this  respect. 
I  have  read,  and  preached,  and  lectured  ;  pos 
sibly  I  may  have  martyred  myself  in  this  man 
ner  fifteen  or  twenty  times.  The  kindest  of 
audiences  and  my  full  quota  of  encouragement 
have  not,  and  has  not,  been  able  to  supply  me 
with  the  pluck  required  to  add  visibly  to  this 
number  of  public  appearances.  Before  an  audi 
ence  I  am  an  abject  coward,  and  have  at  last 
concluded  to  admit  the  humiliating  fact.  The 
solid  amount  of  suffering  which  I  have  en 
dured  on  such  occasions,  is  as  disproportionate 
as  it  is  ridiculous.  Once  I  was  rash  enough  to 
pledge  myself  to  deliver  a  short  course  of  liter 
ary  lectures  before  a  coeducational  university, 
where  I  was  sure  of  that  admiring  and  uncriti 
cal  sympathy  which  young  students  give  to  a 
teacher  to  whom,  for  any  reason,  they  feel  at 
all  drawn. 

For  six  disastrous  weeks  before  this  simple 
experience,  I  dwindled  with  terror,  day  and 
night ;  and  I  came  to  that  audience  of  boys 
and  girls  as  if  they  had  been  a  den  of  tigers, 
and  I  a  solitary,  disabled  gladiator,  doomed  at 
254 


ART   FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

their  claws.  I  contrived  to  live  to  the  end  of 
that  "  course  of  lectures,"  hiding  my  agonies 
with  such  hypocritical  dissimulation  that  I  was 
told  their  existence  was  not  suspected  by  my 
audience.  Whether  the  students  were  any 
wiser  for  that  literary  instruction  I  do  not 
know ;  but  I  was.  The  inevitable  miseries  of 
life  are  enough,  I  said.  I  will  never  ornament 
them  with  the  superfluous  again.  To  the  lec 
ture  bureaus  and  the  charity  entertainments 
of  our  elocutionary  land,  I  have  since  that 
occasion  offered  one  monotonous  reply  :  I  am 
not  a  platform  woman.  Go  thou  in  peace,  but 
I  pray  thee,  have  me  excused. 

Dr.  Bushnell's  strong  and  vicious  phrase, 
The  Reform  against  Nature,  which  is  so  often 
misapplied  in  opposition  to  the  higher  interests 
of  women,  sometimes  finds  its  fit  survival ;  and 
I  meekly  suggest  this  as  one  of  the  contingen 
cies  which  it  seems  created  to  cover.  I  glory 
in  the  success  of  a  modest  and  high-minded 
woman  in  public  address.  I  am  proud  of  her 
to  the  last  shrinking  nerve  in  my  own  organ 
ization.  She  seems  to  me  something  pheno 
menal,  to  be  admired  in  silent  awe.  But  this 
is  a  reform  against  my  nature ;  and  I  have  re 
treated  from  the  field. 

I  have  said    (to  return  to  our   interrupted 
255 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

thought)  that^the  duties  of  a  student  and 
writer  have  often  encroached  upon  my  power 
to  throw  my  life  into  moral  reforms  :  but  I 
am  anxious  to  add  that  my  interest  in  moral 
reforms  has  never,  to  my  consciousness,  en 
croached  upon  my  power  —  such  as  that  has 
been  —  to  write  ;  or  upon  those  habits  of  study 
which  are  the  key  to  the  combination  lock  of 
all  successful  writing. 

On  the  contrary,  I  am  distinctly  aware  that 
such  sympathies  with  the  moral  agitations  of 
our  day  as  have  touched  me  at  all,  have  fed, 
not  famished  my  literary  work.  I  think  that 
most  writers  who  have  trodden  a  similar  path 
would  say  as  much  ;  but  there  is  more  involved 
in  such  testimony  than  would  seem  at  first 
sight :  let  me  suspend  the  thought,  however, 
while  I  allow  myself  a  moment  of  more  purely 
personal  musing. 

Upon  reviewing  the  list  of  books  which  my 
long-suffering  publishers  of  the  eminent  and 
friendly  house  which  has  borne  with  me  for 
thirty  years  attribute  to  my  pen,  I  find  in  the 
whole  of  it  but  one  which  is  confessedly  and 
componentry  written  to  further  an  ethical  re 
form.  This  is  a  little  pamphlet  on  the  dress 
of  women.  It  is  nothing  more  or  less  than 
a  tract  ;  and  never  claimed  to  be.  A  tract, 
though  it  spoke  with  the  rhetoric  of  men,  of 
256 


ART   FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

artists,  or  of  angels,  and  though  it  had  com 
passed  the  circulation  of  a  yellow  novel  or  a 
spelling-book,  is,  in  no  sense,  literature,  nor 
even  literary  art ;  nor  ever  claims  to  be.  No 
artist  or  artisan  of  the  school  of  Art  for  Art's 
sake  can  be  more  acutely  aware  of  axioms 
like  these  than  his  fellow-student  who,  from  a 
diametrically  opposite  conception  of  the  nature 
and  province  of  literature,  dips  his  pen  now 
and  then  into  the  hot  blood  of  some  battle 
with  skulking  error,  which  preachers  and  phi 
lanthropists  and  men  of  science  have  passed  by 
upon  the  other  side,  and  left  for  the  teller  of 
tales  or  the  singer  of  song  to  trouble  himself 
wherewith. 

If  I  am  reminded  how  many  of  my  stories 
have  been  written  with  an  ethical  purpose, 
that  is  quite  another  accusation,  and  one 
which  I  have  not,  from  any  point  of  view,  the 
wraith  of  a  wish  to  deny. 

I  have  been  particularly  asked,  in  closing 
these  papers,  to  say  a  few  words  about  my  own 
theory  of  literary  art.  However  unimportant 
one's  personal  fraction  of  achievement  may  be, 
it  is  built  upon  theory  of  some  kind  ;  and  the 
theory  may  be  considered  of  as  much  or  as 
little  interest  or  value  as  the  work  achieved. 

"  I  have  never  gone  —  I  do  not  go  —  so  deep 
as  that,"  said  one  of  our  foremost  novelists  to 
257 


CHAPTERS    FROM   A    LIFE 

me,  many  years  ago,  when  I  asked  him  why 
he  did  not  handle  some  situation  which  had 
presented  itself  to  me  as  peculiarly  adapted 
to  his  strong  and  delicate  pen.  But  he  spoke 
gravely,  and  too  thoughtfully  for  the  lightness 
of  his  words.  I  was  not  surprised  when,  long 
afterwards,  I  noticed  that  he  had  become  ab 
sorbed  in  some  of  the  most  serious  of  sociologi 
cal  questions,  and  that  a  book  of  his  no  longer 
held  itself  in  graceful  scorn  apart  from  the 
study  of  the  higher  and  the  deeper  laws  which 
govern  human  life.  But  that  phrase  of  his 
stayed  by  me.  He  would  not  go  "  so  deep  as 
that "  ?  Yet  this  was  no  inditer  of  society 
Verse,  no  builder  of  uproarious  paragraphs,  no 
dabbler  in  comedy,  whose  profession  it  was  to 
make  a  man  laugh  after  dinner,  or  a  woman 
smile  when  she  had  sat  down  to  cry.  (Heaven 
preserve  the  lightsome  race,  for  we  need  them 
when  we  can  spare  the  tragic  artist !)  He  of 
whom  I  speak  was  an  artist  in  fiction  ;  of  dig 
nity,  versatility,  and  fame. 

What  manner  of  artist  was  he,  I  make  bold 
to  ask,  who  would  not  "  go  as  deep  as  that  ? " 
Graceful,  elaborate,  subtle,  ingenious,  charm 
ing,  he  may  be.  Perfect,  I  suggest,  he  is  not, 
and  he  cannot  be ;  no,  nor  even  complete  in 
the  artistic  sense  of  the  term,  who  refuses  to 
portray  life  exactly  as  it  is. 
258 


ART   FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

In  a  word,  I  believe  it  to  be  the  province  of 
theTIterafy  artist  to  tell  the  truth  about  the 
world  he  lives  in,  and  I  suggest  that,  in  so  far 
as  he  fails  to  be  an  accurate  truth-teller,  he 
fails  to  be  an  artist.  Now  there  is  something 
obviously  very  familiar  about  this  simple  propo 
sition  ;  and,  turning  to  trace  the  recognition 
down,  one  is  amused  to  perceive  that  here  is 
almost  the  precise  language  of  the  school  of 
writers  to  which  one  distinctly  does  not  be 
long.  Truth,  like  climate,  is  common  prop 
erty  ;  and  I  venture  to  suggest  that  the  issue 
between'  the  two  contending  schools  of  literary 
art  to-day  is  not  so  much  one  of  fact  as  of 
form  ;  or,  perhaps  I  should  rather  say,  not  so 
much  one  of  theory  as  of  temperament  in  the 
expression  of  theory. 

A  literary  artist  portrays  life  as  it  is,  or  has 
been,  as  it  might  be,  or  as  it  should  be.  We 
classify  him  as  the  realist,  the  romanticist,  or 
the  idealist ;  though  I  am  not  sure  but  our 
classification  is  more  defective  than  his  ability 
to  meet  it.  Separate,  for  instance,  the  first  of 
these  clauses  from  the  formulation.  Let  us 
say,  it  is  the  duty  of  the  artist  in  fiction  to 
day  to  paint  life  as  it  exists.  With  this  inev 
itable  observation  who  of  us  has  any  quarrel  ? 

The  quarrel  arises  when  the  artist  defines 
his  subject,  and  chooses  his  medium.  The 
259 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

conflict  begins  when  the  artist  proffers  his 
personal  impression  as  to  what  life  is.  "  Your 
work,"  said  Hall  Caine  before  the  Century 
Club,  "is  what  you  are."  Just  here,  I  ven 
ture  to  suggest,  lies  the  only  important,  un- 
contested  field  left  in  a  too  familiar  war.  Most 
of  the  controversy  between  our  schools  of  art 
goes  "  firing  wild,"  because  it  fails  to  perceive 
the  true  relations  of  this  one  simple  feature  of 
resistance. 

We  are  all  agreed,  I  submit,  that  we  should 
picture  life  as  it  is.  If  I  may  return  to  the 
definite  words,  —  our  difference  is  not  so  much 
one  of  artistic  theory  as  of  the  personal  equa 
tion.  Our  book  reveals  what  life  is  to  us. 
Life  is  to  us  what  we  are. 

Mr.  Howells,  in  his  charming  papers  on 
literary  Boston,  has  given  us  some  of  the 
latest  phrases  of  the  school  of  art  whose 
chief  exponent  in  America  he  undoubtedly 
is.  Of  our  great  New  Englanders  —  Haw 
thorne,  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Whit- 
tier,  Holmes,  Mrs.  Stowe  —  he  says:  "Their 
art  was  Puritan.  So  far  as  it  was  impressed 
.  .  .  it  was  marred  by  the  intense  ethicism 
that  pervaded  .  .  .  and  still  characterizes  the 
New  England  mind.  .  .  .  They  still  helplessly 
pointed  the  moral  in  all  they  did.  It  was  in 
poetry  and  in  romance  that  they  excelled.  In 
260 


ART   FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

the  novel,  so  far  as  they  attempted  it,  they 
failed.  .  .  .  New  England  yet  lacks  her  novel 
ist,  because  it  was  her  instinct  and  her  con 
science  to  be  true  to  an  ideal  of  life  rather 
than  to  life  itself."  Of  the  greatest  of  Ameri 
can  novels,  he  concluded  by  saying  that  "  it  is 
an  address  to  the  conscience  and  not  to  the 
taste  ;  to  the  ethical  sense,  not  the  aesthetical 
sense." 

This  is  not  the  place,  nor  does  it  offer  the 
space,  in  which  to  reply  with  anything  which  I 
should  call  thoroughness  to  such  a  view  of  the 
nature  of  art.  But  it  seems  to  be  the  place  ."' 
for  me  to  suggest,  at  least,  so  much  as  this  :  — • 
Since  art  implies  the  truthful  and  conscientious 
study  of  life  as  it  is,  we  contend  that  to  be 
a  radically  defective  view  of  art  which  would 
preclude  from  it  the  ruling  constituents  of  life. 
Moral  character  is  to  human  life  what  air  is  to 
the  natural  world  ;  —  it  is  elemental. 

There  was  more  than  literary  science  in 
Matthew  Arnold's  arithmetic  when  he  called 
conduct  "  three  fourths  of  life."  Possibly  the 
Creator  did  not  make  the  world  chiefly  for  the 
purpose  of  providing  studies  for  gifted  novel 
ists  ;  but  if  He  had  done  so,  we  can  scarcely 
imagine  that  He  could  have  offered  anything 
much  better  in  the  way  of  material,  even 
though  one  look  the  moral  element  squarely  in 
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the  face,  and  abide  by  the  fact  of  its  tremen 
dous  proportion  in  the  scheme  of  things.  The 
moral  element,  it  cannot  be  denied,  predomi 
nates  enormously  in  the  human  drama.  The 
moral  struggle,  the  creation  of  character,  the 
moral  ideal,  failure  and  success  in  reaching  it, 
anguish  and  ecstasy  in  missing  or  gaining  it, 
the  instinct  to  extend  the  appreciation  of  moral 
beauty,  and  to  worship  its  Eternal  Source,— 
these  exist  wherever  human  being  does.  The 
whole  magnificent  play  of  the  moral  nature 
sweeps  over  the  human  stage  with  a  force,  a 
splendor,  and  a  diversity  of  effect,  which  no 
artist  can  deny  if  he  would,  which  the  great 
est  artist  never  tries  to  withstand,  and  against 
which  the  smallest  will  protest  in  vain. 

Strike  "  Ethicism  "  out  of  life,  good  friends, 
before  you  shake  it  out  of  story  ! 

Fear  less  to  seem  "  Puritan  "  than  to  be  in 
adequate.  Fear  more  to  be  superficial  than  to 
seem  "  deep."  Fear  less  to  "  point  your  moral " 
than  to  miss  your  opportunity. 

It  is  for  us  to  remind  you,  since  it  seems 
to  us  that  you  overlook  the  fact,  that  in  any 
highly-formed  or  fully-formed  creative  power, 
the  "ethical"  as  well  as  the  "aesthetical 
sense  "  is  developed.  Where  "  the  taste  "  is 
developed  at  the  expense  of  "  the  conscience," 
the  artist  is  incomplete :  he  is,  in  this  case,  at 
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ART  FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

least  as  incomplete  as  he  is  where  the  ethical 
sense  is  developed  at  the  expense  of  the  aes 
thetic.  Specialism  in  literary  art,  as  in  sci 
ence,  has  its  uses ;  but  it  is  not  symmetry ;  and 
this  is  not  a  law  intended  to  work  only  one 
way. 

It  is  an  ancient  and  honorable  rule  of  rhet 
oric,  that  he  is  the  greatest  writer  who,  other 
things  being  equal,  has  the  greatest  subject. 
He  is,  let  us  say,  the  largest  artist  who,  other 
things  being  equal,  holds  the  largest  view  of 
human  life.  The  largest  view  of  human  life, 
we  contend,  is  that  which  recognizes  moral 
responsibility,  and  which  recognizes  it  in  the 
greatest  way. 

In  a  word,  the  province  of  the  artist  is  to 
portray  life  as  it  is  ;  and  life  is  moral  responsi 
bility.  Life  is  several  other  things,  we  do  not 
deny.  It  is  beauty,  it  is  joy,  it  is  tragedy,  it 
is  comedy,  it  is  psychical  and  physical  pleasure, 
it  is  the  interplay  of  a  thousand  rude  or  delicate 
motions  and  emotions,  it  is  the  grimmest  and 
the  merriest  motley  of  phantasmagoria  that 
could  appeal  to  the  gravest  or  the  maddest 
brush  ever  put  to  palette;  but  it  is  steadily 
and  sturdily  and  always  moral  responsibility. 
An  artist  can  no  more  fling  off  the  moral 
sense  from  his  work  than  he  can  oust  it  from 
his  private  life.  A  great  artist  (let  me  repeat) 
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is  too  great  to  try  to  do  so.  With  one  or  two 
familiar  exceptions,  of  which  more  might  be 
said,  the  greatest  have  laid  in  the  moral  values 
of  their  pictures  just  as  life  lays  them  in  ;  and 
in  life  they  are  not  to  be  evaded.  There  is 
a  squeamishness  against  "ethicism,"  which  is 
quite  as  much  to  be  avoided  as  any  squeamish- 
ness  about  "  the  moral  nude  in  art,"  or  other 
debatable  question.  The  great  way  is  to  go 
grandly  in,  as  the  Creator  did  when  He  made 
the  models  which  we  are  fain  to  copy.  After 
all,  the  Great  Artist  is  not  a  poor  master  ;  all 
His  foregrounds  stand  out  against  the  perspec 
tive -of  the  moral  nature.  Why  go  tiptoeing 
about  the  easel  to  avoid  it  ? 

"Helplessly  to  point  the  moral  "  is  the  last 
thing  needful  or  artistic.  The  moral  takes 
care  of  itself.  Life  is  moral  struggle.  Por 
tray  the  struggle,  and  you  need  write  no  tract. 
In  so  far  as  you  feel  obliged  to  write  the  tract, 
your  work  is  not  well  done.  One  of  the  great 
est  works  of  fiction  ever  given  to  the  world  in 
any  tongue  was  "  Les  Mise'rables."  Are  those 
five  books  the  less  novels  because  they  raised 
the  mortal  cry  of  the  despised  and  rejected 
against  the  deafness  of  the  world  ?  By  the 
majesty  of  a  great  art,  No  ! 

Did  Victor  Hugo  write  a  tract?  He  told 
an  immortal  story.  Hold  beside  it  the  sketches 
264 


ART  FOR  TRUTH'S   SAKE 

and  pastels,  the  etchings,  the  studies  in  dialect, 
the  adoration  of  the  incident,  the  dissection  of 
the  cadaver,  which  form  the  fashion  in  the 
ateliers  of  our  schools  to-day ! 

It  has  seemed  to  me,  to  return  to  the  per 
sonal  question,  that  so  far  as  one  is  able  to 
command  attention  at  all,  one's  first  duty  in 
the  effort  to  become  a  literary  artist  is  to  por 
tray  the  most  important,  not  altogether  the 
least  important,  features  of  the  world  he  lives 
in. 

The  last  thirty  years  in  America  have  pul 
sated  with  moral  struggle.  No  phase  of  society 
has  escaped  it.  It  has  ranged  from  social  ex 
periment  to  religious  cataclysm,  and  to  national 
upheaval.  I  suggest  that  even  moral  reforms, 
even  civic  renovations,  might  have  their  proper 
position  in  the  artistic  representation  of  a 
given  age  or  stage  of  life.  I  submit  that  even 
the  religious  nature  may  be  fit  material  for 
a  work  of  art,  which  shall  not  be  refused  the 
name  of  a  novel  for  that  reason.  Such  expres 
sions  of  "  ethicism  "  are  phases  of  human  life, 
are  elements  of  human  nature. 

Therefore,  they  are  lawful  material  for  any 
artist  who  chooses  them ;  who  understands 
them  ;  and  whose  art  is  sufficient  for  their 
control.  If  he  has  sacrificed  truth  or  beauty 
to  didactics,  he  is,  in  so  far,  no  artist.  But  be- 

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CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

cause  he  selects  for  his  canvas  —  whether  from 
mere  personal  aptitude,  or  from  a  color  sense, 
which  leads  him  to  prefer  the  stronger  values 
—  the  moral  elements  of  life,  he  shall  not  fot 
that  reason  be  denied  the  name  of  artist. 
"  Omit  Eternity  in  your  estimate  of  area," 
said  a  great  mathematician,  "  and  your  solu 
tion  is  wrong."  Omit  the  true  proportions  of 
moral  responsibility  in  your  estimate  of  beauty, 
you  who  paint  for  "Art's  sake,"  and  your  art 
is  in  error. 

There  is  one  form  of  fiction  which,  I  think, 
is  imperfectly  understood  by  students  and 
critics,  to  which,  as  it  happens,  I  have  given 
some  special  attention,  and  which  is  therefore 
peculiarly  interesting  to  me.  I  mean  the  short 
story.  The  difficulties  in  the  way  of  creating 
a  good  novel  are  sufficiently  obvious ;  I  ques 
tion  whether  they  are  as  severe  as  those  in  the 
case  of  the  short  story.  The  short  story,  in  its 
present  stage  of  evolution,  is  a  highly-devel 
oped  piece  of  workmanship,  and  will,  I  think, 
yet  become  a  far  more  exquisite  one  than  we 
at  present  compass. 

A  good  short  story  is  a  work  of  art  which 

daunts  us  in  proportion  to  its  brevity.    It  would 

not  be  easy  for  one  who  has  not  "served  his 

time  out "  at  this  form  of  creation,  to  understand 

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STORIES  AND   BOOKS 

the  laws  of  construction  involved  in  it,  and  the 
rigidity  of  obedience  demanded  by  them.  Per 
haps  I  ought  fairly  to  say,  in  venturing  to 
offer  this  assertion,  that,  personally,  I  make  a 
very  hard  time  of  it,  over  a  short  story.  I  do 
not  know  how  to  write  one  easily  or  quickly. 
"  Those  things  ?  "  said  a  friend  to  me  once, 
and  he  a  learned  man,  accustomed  to  study 
from  fourteen  to  eighteen  hours  a  day  at  his 
own  profession,  "  Why,  I  supposed  you  got 
those  off  in  a  few  hours  !  " 

It  has  always  taken  me  at  least  from  a 
month  to  six  weeks  to  finish  a  magazine  story. 
I  confess  that  I  "toil  terribly  "  over  them.  It 
makes  little  difference  whether  the  motif  comes 
in  a  blinding  flash,  or  in  a  slow,  insulated,  elec 
tric  current :  —  the  construction  and  execution 
remain  inexorable  ideals  frowning  above  atten 
tion,  patience,  vitality,  energy,  until  the  work 
is  done.  One  who  honors  this  vehicle  of 
thought  is  often  ill  with  the  strain,  before  a 
magazine  tale  of  forty  pages  of  manuscript  can 
be  apparently  completed.  The  work  upon  such 
a  story  is  never  done.  Revision  calls  the  vision 
to  account  in  that  iron  exaction  from  one's  self 
which  is  so  much  more  remorseless  than  the 
exaction  that  any  critic  can  make  upon  one. 

Fortunately,  perhaps,  the  editor  calls  for  his 
copy,  and  the  laboring  pen  must  drop  its  lov- 
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CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

ing  task.  The  story  goes  to  press.  Then 
come  the  days  and  nights  of  wishing  that  it 
had  stayed  at  home  !  Then  the  steady  action 
of  the  brain,  which  has  for  weeks  stiffened 
about  the  story,  goes  on,  till  it  meets  the  re 
action  awaiting  all  strenuous  labor.  I  recast, 
remodel,  retouch,  destroy  the  whole  thing  a 
dozen  times  in  my  mind,  and  recreate  it ; 
scathing  myself  that  I  ever  suffered  it  to  leave 
the  safe  protection  of  the  little  pasteboard  pad 
held  across  the  lap,  on  which  I  write.  The 
proof-sheets  come  ;  at  once  a  species  of  relief, 
and  of  torment.  The  changes  which  can  and 
which  cannot  be  made  in  the  text  combat  each 
other.  No  proof  leaves  the  study  without 
three  revisions. 

I  look  upon  a  short  story,  properly  fitted  for 
the  higher  magazines  of  our  day,  as  one  of  the 
very  finest  forms  of  expression.  No  inspira 
tion  is  too  noble  for  it ;  no  amount  of  hard 
work  is  too  severe  for  it.  It  is  my  belief  that 
there  is  a  future  for  the  short  story,  which  all 
our  experiments  and  achievements  are  building 
with  a  gradual  and  a  beautiful  architecture. 

Is  the  natural  growth  of  this  way  of  telling 
a  story  in  part  a  concession  to  the  restlessness 
of  our  times,  in  which  all  men  are  driven  by 
"  the  whip  of  the  sky,"  and  leisure  is  a  lost 
art  ?  Shall  we  some  time  come  to  the  point 
268 


STORIES   AND   BOOKS 

where  people  will  no  longer  think  themselves 
able  to  read  books  ?  Will  the  novel  dwindle 
to  the  novelette  ?  (that  dreariest  of  efforts  to 
do  a  thing  and  not  do  it  at  the  same  time !) 
Will  the  scientific  volume  .shrink  to  the  essay 
in  the  last  review?  Will  all  the  classics  in 
fiction  some  day  be  short  stories  ?  Who  can 
prophesy  ?  Not  I  :  and  would  not,  if  I  could. 

Perhaps  the  question  oftenest  asked  of  any 
writer  by  "  the  great  unknown  "  of  his  readers 
is,  which  of  his  own  writings  he  personally  pre 
fers.  It  has  always  seemed  to  me  rather  a 
foolish  question  ;  for  it  is  not  of  the  slight 
est  consequence  what  an  author  thinks  about 
his  own  work  :  he  may  have  his  opinion  as  to 
what  ought  to  be  the  best  thing  he  has  done  ; 
but  his  readers  will  decide  for  him  what  is  the 
best  —  or  the  worst  —  that  he  has  offered  them. 

"The  public,"  Thackeray  used  to  say,  "is 
a  jackass."  With  this  great  authority  I  feel 
forced  to  differ  a  little.  On  the  whole,  I  have 
a  profound  respect  for  the  sense  of  the  reading  » 
public.  If  large  numbers  of  intelligent  peo 
ple  like  a  book,  one  may  believe  in  one's  soul 
that  it  is  the  poorest  thing  one  has  done,  but 
one  is  forced  to  think  that  there  was  some 
thing  worth  while  about  it.  If  they  dislike  a 
book,  I  am  more  than  ready  to  suspect  that 
there  is  a  reason  for  it,  though  I  may  labor 
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CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

under  the  personal  delusion  that  it  is  my  chef- 
d'oeuvre. 

Still,  since  there  seems  to  be  a  widespread, 
natural  wish  to  know  how  authors  discriminate 
among  their  own  works,  I  do  not  know  that  it 
is  any  more  unreasonable  a  demand  to  comply 
with  than  the  mania  for  autographs. 

And,  by  the  way,  if  I  may  take  a  moment's 
recess  from  a  subject  which  will  not  be  the 
worse  for  a  respite,  this  may  be  as  good  a 
place  as  any  other  in  which  to  say  that  I  have 
been  reluctantly  forced,  for  dear  life,  to  decline 
the  distribution  of  autographs  by  mail,  except 
for  the  gratification  of  the  sick,  and  for  chari 
ties.  The  demand  having  reached  a  point 
where  I  had  no  longer  strength  or  time  to 
comply  with  it,  I  was  forced  to  adopt  a  course 
not  at  heart  as  ungracious  as  it  may  seem. 
Good  Lord  deliver  us  from  ten,  twenty  cards 
to  an  envelope  !  And  preserve  us  from  the 
crisis,  when  the  autograph  epidemic  strikes  a 
school  or  a  college,  like  the  measles,  and  runs 
through  !  When  autograph  bedquilts  and 
autograph  aprons  vie  with  autograph  lamp 
shades  and  autograph  tablecloths,  a  writer 
who  cannot  command  secretary,  typewriter,  or 
any  aid  whatever  to  the  mechanical  part  of  his 
profession,  finds  himself  at  bay.  When,  one 
day,  I  received  a  peremptory  order  from  some 
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STORIES   AND   BOOKS 

remote  and  unknown  individual  for  autograph 
prayers,  I  resorted  to  the  protest  of  all  over 
worked  and  underpaid  laborers  in  our  times, 
—  I  struck. 

To  come  back  to  our  bisected  paragraph  :  if 
I  am  to  say  for  which  of  my  short  stories  I 
have  any  especial  preference,  the  list  would 
be  sadly  brief.  "The  Madonna  of  the  Tubs," 
perhaps,  and  "  Jack  the  Fisherman,"  "  The 
Supply  at  Saint  Agatha's,"  "  The  Bell  of  Saint 
Basil's,"  and  possibly  one  other.  These  indi 
cate  to  my  aspiration  the  astral  bodies  of  some 
thing  which  I  should  have  liked  to  do,  if  I 
could  have  done  it. 

Among  the  books  which  I  have  written  in 
the  last  twenty-five  years,  there  are  too  many 
which  were  cast  in  very  early  youth,  when 
an  unpracticed  pen  and  unformed  ideas  of  art 
compassed  nothing  that  I  like  to  recall,  or  to 
have  others  remember. 

The  stories  known  as  "  The  Gates  "  series 
have  a  certain  interest  to  me,  for  the  reason 
that  they  continue  to  this  day  to  find  more 
readers  than  any  or  all  other  books  I  have 
written  ;  and  that,  in  chronological  proportion. 
"  Beyond  the  Gates"  and  "The  Gates  Be 
tween  "  were  written  in  maturer  life  than  the 
first ;  I  have  a  little  tenderness  for  these  two 
dreams  of  the  life  to  be. 
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CHAPTERS    FROM   A   LIFE 

"  The  Story  of  Avis  "  is  a  woman's  book ; 
and  an  author  would  care  for  it  in  proportion 
as  she  cared  for  her  own  sex. 

Perhaps,  on  the  whole,  I  have  written  no 
thing  which  I  should  be  so  sorry  to  have  seri 
ously  misunderstood,  or  am  so  glad  to  know 
that  I  am  finding  friends  for,  as  the  last  story, 
—  "  A  Singular  Life." 

This  brings  me  to  say,  gladly,  how  much  I 
owe,  in  the  little  share  of  the  hard  work  of  my 
times  which  I  have  done,  to  the  picturesque, 
warm-hearted  people  of  the  sea  among  whom 
I  have  spent  the  last  twenty  summers.  The 
tide  does  not  rise  through  my  pen  as  it  did 
through  Celia  Thaxter's,  who,  I  think,  scarcely 
published  a  poem  which  did  not  contain  an 
allusion  to  the  sea ;  but  I  have  neighbored  the 
life  of  the  coast  too  long  not  to  feel  myself  a 
part  of  it.  I  am  told  that  certain  "  material  " 
in  Gloucester  is  pointed  out  as  the  original  of 
scenes  or  of  characters  in  some  of  my  stories  ; 
and  I  should  like  to  take  this  opportunity  to 
say  that,  while  I  may  paint  in  the  tints  or  out 
lines  of  rocks  and  beaches,  downs  and  harbor, 
fleet  and  wharf,  I  never  draw  portraits  of  my 
neighbors  or  of  my  friends. 

•  They  have  taught  me  much,  however,  of  a 
kind  of  knowledge  of  which  it  would  be  impos 
sible  for  any  writer  to  divest  himself.  I  honor 
272 


A   NEW    HOME 

their  courage,  their  generosity,  their  patience 
in  hardship,  and  their  pluck  in  overcoming  it  ; 
and  I  like  that  something  wild  and  salt  in  their 
natures  akin  to  the  winds  and  the  waves  in 
which  they  live.  In  so  far  as  their  qualities 
have  washed  up  into  my  stories,  the  debt  is 
distinctly  mine. 

The  story  of  "  A  Singular  Life  "  came  out 
of  the  depths  of  the  sea,  and  of  a  heart  that 
has  long  loved  the  sea-people.  Bayard  is  my 
dearest  hero. 

Our  Gloucester  home  itself  has  suffered  a 
sea-change  within  the  last  five  years.  The 
choice  spot  on  the  chosen  side  of  the  harbor 
became  in  time  a  Babel,  in  which  only  those 
"  who  sleep  o'  nights  "  could  rest*  The  tramp 
and  the  tongue  of  the  summer  army  devastated 
Paradise.  The  wand  of  the  house-mover  — 
most  startling  of  modern  magicians  —  waved 
over  the  cottage  ;  and  to-day  we  find  ourselves 
wafted  from  shore  to  farm  ;  from  stormy  tides, 
both  salt  and  human,  we  have  come  to  anchor 
in 

"  Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood." 

How  confusing  and  bewitching  is  the  experi 
ence,  no  one  can  divine  who  had  not  moved 
his  house,  and  gone  on  living  in  it ! 

Through  windows  which   used   to   gaze   on 
Norman's   Woe,  and   Boston   Light,  and   the 
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CHAPTERS   FROM  A   LIFE 

tossing  Eastern  shore,  and  the  fleets  champing 
at  their  roads,  like  tethered  sea-horses  at  their 
bits,  we  look  to  see  "  the  daisies  dressed  for 
the  dance "  with  the  clovers,  and  the  cattle 
slowly  winding  across  the  downs  beyond  the 
rope-gate  which  —  with  the  genuine  native 
Gloucester  instinct  —  we  found  ourselves  quite 
naturally  constructing  out  of  the  sheets  of  our 
fishing-boat  that  we  do  not  call  a  yacht ;  who 
tugs  at  her  mooring  off  the  pier,  six  minutes 
away.  Beyond  the  door  on  which  the  spray 
used  to  dash  in  the  autumn  gales,  lies  the 
tapestry  of  the  marshes,  a  vast  Persian  rug, 
unfolded  in  all  the  dull,  deep  shades  that  orien 
tal  weavers  love,  against  the  feet  of  the  cliffs, 
whose  gray  shoulders  mark  the  fascinating 
foreground  of  the  downs. 

Happy  the  flitting  that  stirs  from  home  to 
home,  and  never  from  home  to  hotel  life  ! 

There  is  a  hillside  in  the  Garden  City  of 
Massachusetts,  where  we  have  built  the  most 
modest  of  houses  into  the  most  luxurious  of 
landscapes.  All  our  splendor  is  outside.  "  Oh," 
said  a  shivering  cockney,  "  these  places  where 
there  is  climate,  and  nothing  else  !  "  To  such 
a  visitor  our  "  poem  of  places"  might  seem  a 
view,  and  nothing  else.  But  town  life  has 
not  spoiled  the  whole  of  our  day  and  genera 
tion  ;  and  enough  remain  who  have  eyes  to  see 
274 


81 


A   NEW    HOME 

and  nerves  to  feel  the  free  horizon,  the  pure, 
electric  air,  the  gracious  sweep  of  hill  and  val 
ley  outline,  the  rose-garden  of  the  sunrise,  the 
conflagration  of  the  sunset,  the  banner  of  the 
woods  and  meadows. 

Poverty  itself  is  rich  in  a  country  home ; 
and  plain  New  England  comfort  and  economy 
we  consider  to  be  in  princely  circumstances. 

Our  upholstery  hangs  in  our  silver  birches 
and  bronze  chestnuts,  our  red  oaks  and  olive 
pines.  Our  Wilton  and  Axminster  lie  in  our 
clovers  and  snowdrifts.  Our  bric-a-brac  shines 
on  the  boughs  of  our  apple-trees  when  the 
blossom  blushes.  Our  jewels  blaze  on  the  tips 
of  our  pine-fronds  when  the  ice-storms  glaze, 
and  the  sun  of  the  winter  thaw  is  hot.  Our 
galleries  are  filled  with  the  masterpieces  of 
May  and  of  October,  framed  in  quiet  study 
windows,  whose  moods  we  choose  to  fit  with 
ours. 

We  can  never  quite  want  for  society  when 
our  pine-groves  talk  ;  they  have  taught  us  their 
language,  and  we  need  no  translator  when  the 
winds  are  abroad.  The  piano  rings  to  the 
accompaniment  of  grand  winter  storms,  from 
which  only  the  true  country  lover  never 
shrinks  ;  and  the  books  on  their  shelves  or 
tables  turn  loving  faces  to  the  readers,  who  do 
not  count  the  evenings  dull  in  the  society  of 
275 


CHAPTERS   FROM    A   LIFE 

these  loyal  and  lifelong  friends.  The  country 
side  without  and  the  fireside  within  open  the 
book  of  home  together ;  and  the  word  they 
read  is  peace. 

It  is  impossible  for  us  to  sing  too  loud  the 
song  of  country  life.  For  a  student  we  believe 
it  to  be  the  one  way  of  living.  Perhaps,  to 
be  just,  I  should  say  suburban  life ;  since  it  is 
but  twenty-five  minutes  from  Boston  to  our 
door ;  and  the  world  is  always  with  us  if  we 
want  it. 

In  point  of  fact,  one  may  not  want  it  very 
much.  The  distractions,  the  exhaustions,  the 
savage  noises,  the  demands  of  town  life,  are, 
for  me,  mortal  enemies  to  thought,  to  sleep, 
and  to  study  ;  its  extremes  of  squalor  and  of 
splendor  do  not  stimulate,  but  sadden  me ;  cer 
tain  phases  of  its  society  I  profoundly  value, 
but  would  sacrifice  them  to  the  heaven  of 
country  quiet,  if  I  had  to  choose  between. 

In  this  shelter  of  snow  and  silence  we  spend 
eager  winters  ;  for  our  hardest  work,  like  that, 
perhaps,  of  most  people  of  our  calling,  is  done 
between  October  and  June.  Life  seems  to 
grow  busier,  I  find,  as  middle  age  strikes  step 
with  one.  I  wonder  is  this  always  so  ?  "  I 
have  always  been  thinking,"  said  a  gentle,  care 
worn  woman  to  me  once,  "  that  the  time  would 
come  when  things  would  grow  easier ;  it  never 
276 


A   NEW   HOME 

has;  perhaps  it  will  yet."  Perhaps  it  did; 
for  she  died  that  year. 

But  we,  like  so  many  others  who  think  more 
of  working  than  of  dying,  care  only  to  push 
on  steadily,  wishing  less  for  cessation  of  toil 
than  for  strength  to  keep  at  it ;  and  for  wis 
dom  to  make  it  worthy  of  the  ideal  of  labor 
and  of  life  which  we  believe  to  be  the  most 
precious  gift  of  Heaven  to  any  soul.  When 
one  has  gone  as  far  as  one  can  in  search  of 
it,  will  it  come,  like  the  father  in  the  parable, 
though  yet  a  great  way  off,  to  meet  one  and 
shorten  the  remainder  of  the  way  ? 

The  fog  was  breathing  off  Cape  Ann  when 
I  put  my  pen  to  the  first  words  of  these  broken 
recollections.  The  coast  was  hidden.  The' 
sea  was  calling.  He  asked  grave  questions. 

The  fog  is  breathing  over  the  inland  rolling 
country  as  I  write  this  closing  page.  The  blue 
and  purple  mists  of  a  soft  November  storm, 
that  cannot  make  up  its  mind  whether  to  stay 
or  go,  smoke  far  along  the  valley.  The  out 
lines  of  the  woods  and  distance  are  blurred  as 
if  with  an  imperious  brush.  Half  the  meaning 
of  the  gentle  scene  is  hidden.  The  sea  is  too 
many  miles  away  to  hear  him.  I  am  the  one 
who  does  the  calling,  who  asks  the  questions 
now.  But  strong  silence  answers  me. 

Since  out  of  life  we  all  learn  a  few  things 
277 


CHAPTERS   FROM   A   LIFE 

well,  we  find  it  natural  to  try  to  make  them 
over  to  other  lives  ;  and  we  should  choose  for 
our  telling,\not  the  most  brilliant  lessons,  but 
those  that  have  been  educative  to  ourselves  ; 
those  that  will  make  it  easier  to  live  ;  and 
more  possible  to  live  happily,  and  with  the 
eyes  focussed  upon  a  true  horizon. 

Perhaps,  in  my  honest  soul,  I  am  wondering 
if  these  fragments  will  have  done  as  much  as 
this  for  any  reader  of  all  the  patient  number. 

But  the  mist  is  on  the  hills,  as  on  the  val 
leys  ;  and  the  outlines  of  the  landscape  all  are 
hidden.  I  can  see  but  a  little  way. 

Is  it  the  fog  that  reminds  me  ?  Perhaps ! 
But  that,  or  something  else,  drags  out  of  my 
pen  the  poignant  words  of  Zangwill,  who  said 
of  a  certain  writer  that  "  he  had  concealed 
himself  behind  an  autobiography."  If  one  has 
done  as  much  as  that,  perhaps  one  has  met  the 
chief  conditions  of  the  case. 
278 


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